The storm had passed; day broke calm and radiant over the Castle of Praslok; sunshine played caressingly on the lake and on the hills.

Markart had breakfasted and paid a visit to his horse; he wanted to be off by nine o'clock, and waited only for the Prince's letter. He was returning from the stables, sniffing the morning air with a vivid enjoyment of the change of weather, when he saw Sophy coming along the road. She had been for a walk. Her eyes and cheeks glowed with exhilaration. She wore her sheepskin tunic, her sheepskin cap with its red cockade, and her short, blue skirt over high boots. She walked as though on the clouds of heaven, a wonderful lightness in her tread; the Red Star signalled the exaltation of her spirit; the glad sound of the trumpet rang in her heart.

Her cordial greeting to Markart was spiced with raillery, to which he responded as well as his ignorance allowed; he was uncertain how much she knew of the real situation. But if his tongue was embarrassed, his eyes spoke freely. He could not keep them from her face; to him she seemed a queen of life and joy that glorious morning.

"You've recovered from your fright?" she asked. "Poor Monsieur Zerkovitch is still sleeping his off, I suppose! Oh, the story's all over the Castle!"

"It'll be all over the country soon," said Markart with a rueful smile.

"Well, after all, Monsieur Zerkovitch is a journalist, and journalists don't spare even themselves, you know. And you're not a reticent person, are you? Don't you remember all the information you gave me once?"

"Ah, on the terrace of the HÔtel de Paris! Much has happened since then, Baroness."

"Much always happens, if you keep your eyes open," said Sophy.

"If you keep yours open, nothing happens for me but looking at them."

She laughed merrily; a compliment never displeased Sophy, and she could bear it very downright.

"But if I were to shut my eyes, what would you do then?"

He looked doubtfully at her mocking face; she meant a little more than the idle words naturally carried.

"I don't think you'll give me the chance of considering, Baroness." He indicated her costume with a gesture of his hand. "You've entered the service, I see?"

"Yes, Captain Markart, the King's service. We are brethren—you serve him, too?"

"I have that honor." Markart flushed under her laughing scrutiny.

"We fight shoulder to shoulder then. Well, not quite. I'm a gunner, you see."

"Minus your guns, at present!"

"Not for long!" She turned round and swept her arms out towards the lake and the hills. "It's a day to think of nothing—just to go riding, riding, riding!" Her laugh rang out in merry longing.

"What prevents you?"

"My military duties, perhaps, Captain," she answered. "You're lucky—you have a long ride; don't spoil it by thinking!"

"I think? Oh no, Baroness! I only obey my orders."

"And they never make you think?" Her glance was quick at him for an instant.

"There's danger in thinking too much, even for ladies," he told her.

She looked at him more gravely, for his eyes were on her now with a kindly, perhaps a remorseful, look.

"You mean that for me?" she asked. "But if I, too, only obey my orders?"

"With all my heart I hope they may lead you into no danger," he said.

"There's only one danger in all the world—losing what you love."

"Not, sometimes, gaining it?" he asked quickly.

"Still, the only danger would be of losing it again."

"There's life, too," he remarked with a shrug.

"Sir, we're soldiers!" she cried in merry reproof.

"That doesn't prevent me from prizing your life, Baroness, in the interests of a world not too rich in what you contribute to it."

Sophy looked at him, a subtle merriment in her eyes. "I think, Captain Markart, that, if you were my doctor, you'd advise me to try—a change of air! Praslok is too exciting, is that it? But I found Slavna—well, far from relaxing, you know!"

"The Kravonian climate as a whole, Baroness—"

"Oh no, no, that's too much!" she interrupted. Then she said: "It's very kind of you—yes, I mean that—and it's probably—I don't know—but probably against your orders. So I thank you. But I can face even the rigors of Kravonia."

She held out her hand; he bent and kissed it. "In fact, I hadn't the least right to say it," he confessed. "Not the least from any point of view. It's your fault, though, Baroness."

"Since I'm party to the crime, I'll keep the secret," she promised with a decidedly kindly glance. To Sophy, admiration of herself always argued something good in a man; she had none of that ungracious scorn which often disfigures the smile of beauty. She gave a little sigh, followed quickly by a smile.

"We've said all we possibly can to one another, you and I; more than we could, perhaps! And now—to duty!" She pointed to the door of the Castle.

The Prince was coming down the wooden causeway. He, too, wore the Volseni sheepskins. In his hand he carried a sealed letter. Almost at the same moment a groom led Markart's horse from the stables. The Prince joined them and, after a bow to Sophy, handed the letter to Markart.

"For his Majesty. And you remember my message to General Stenovics?"

"Accurately, sir."

"Good!" He gave Markart his hand. "Good-bye—a pleasant ride to you, Captain—pleasanter than last night's." His grave face broke into a smile.

"I'm not to have Monsieur Zerkovitch's company this time, sir?"

"Why, no, Captain. You see, Zerkovitch left the Castle soon after six o'clock. Rather a short night, yes, but he was in a hurry."

Sophy burst into a laugh at the dismay on Markart's face. "We neither of us knew that, Captain Markart, did we?" she cried. "We thought he was sleeping off the fright you'd given him!"

"Your Royal Highness gives me leave—?" stammered Markart, his eye on his horse.

"Certainly, Captain. But don't be vexed, there will be no invidious comparisons. Zerkovitch doesn't propose to report himself to General Stenovics immediately on his arrival."

Good-natured Markart joined in the laugh at his own expense. "I'm hardly awake yet; he must be made of iron, that Zerkovitch!"

"Quicksilver!" smiled the Prince. As Markart mounted, he added: "Au revoir!"

Markart left the two standing side by side—the Prince's serious face lit up with a rare smile, Sophy's beauty radiant in merriment. His own face fell as he rode away. "I half wish I was in the other camp," he grumbled. But Stenovics's power held him—and the fear of Stafnitz. He went back to a work in which his heart no longer was; for his heart had felt Sophy's spell.

"You can have had next to no sleep all night, Monseigneur," said Sophy in reproach mingled with commiseration.

"I don't need it; the sight of your face refreshes me. We must talk. Zerkovitch brought news."

In low, grave tones he told her the tidings, and the steps which he and Zerkovitch had taken.

"I understand my father's reasons for keeping me in the dark; he meant it well, but he was blinded by this idea about my marriage. But I see, too, how it fitted in with Stenovics's ideas. I think it's war between us now—and I'm ready."

Sophy was almost dazed. The King's life was not to be relied on for a week—for a day—no, not for an hour! But she listened attentively. Zerkovitch had gone back to Slavna on a fresh horse and at top speed; he would have more than two hours' lead of Markart. His first duty was to open communications with Lepage and arrange that the valet should send to him all the information which came to his ears, and any impressions which he was able to gather in the Palace. Zerkovitch would forward the reports to Praslok immediately, so long as the Prince remained at the Castle. But the Prince was persuaded that his father would not refuse to see him, now that he knew the true state of the case. "My father is really attached to me," he said, "and if I see him, I'm confident that I can persuade him of the inexpediency of my leaving the kingdom just now. A hint of my suspicions with regard to the Countess and Stenovics would do it; but I'm reluctant to risk giving him such a shock. I think I can persuade him without."

"But is it safe for you to trust yourself at Slavna—in the Palace? And alone?"

"I must risk the Palace alone—and I'm not much afraid. Stenovics might go to war with me, but I don't think he'd favor assassination. And to Slavna I sha'n't go alone. Our gunners will go with us, Sophy. We have news of the guns being on the way; there will be nothing strange in my marching the gunners down to meet them. They're only half-trained, even in drill, but they're brave fellows. We'll take up our quarters with them in Suleiman's Tower. I don't fear all Slavna if I hold Suleiman's Tower with three hundred Volsenians. Stafnitz may do his worst!"

"Yes, I see," she answered, thoughtfully. "I can't come with you to Suleiman's Tower, though."

"Only if there are signs of danger. Then you and Marie must come; if all is quiet, you can stay in her house. We can meet often—as often as possible. For the rest, we must wait."

She saw that they must wait. It was impossible to approach the King on the matter of Sophy. It cut dead at the heart of his ambition; it would be a shock as great as the discovery of Countess Ellenburg's ambitions. It could not be risked.

"But if, under Stenovics's influence, the King does refuse to see you?" she asked—"Refuses to see you, and repeats his orders?"

The Prince's face grew very grave, but his voice was firm.

"Not even the King—not even my father—can bid me throw away the inheritance which is mine. The hand would be the King's, but the voice the voice of Stenovics. I shouldn't obey; they'd have to come to Volseni and take me."

Sophy's eyes kindled. "Yes, that's right!" she said. "And for to-day?"

"Nothing will happen to-day—unless, by chance, the thing which we now know may happen any day; and of that we shouldn't hear till evening. And there's no drill even. I sent the men to their homes on forty-eight hours' furlough yesterday morning." His face relaxed in a smile. "I think to-day we can have a holiday, Sophy."

She clapped her hands in glee. "Oh, Monseigneur, a holiday!"

"It may be the last for a long time," he said; "so we must enjoy it."

This day—this holiday which might be the last—passed in a fine carelessness and a rich joy in living. The cloudless sky and the glittering waters of Lake Talti were parties to their pleasure, whether as they rode far along the shore, or sat and ate a simple meal on the rock-strewn margin. Hopes and fears, dangers and stern resolves, were forgotten; even of the happier issues which the future promised, or dangled before their eyes, there was little thought or speech. The blood of youth flowed briskly, the heart of youth rose high. The grave Prince joked, jested, and paid his court; Sophy's eyes gleamed with the fun as not even the most exalted and perilous adventure could make them sparkle.

"Oh, it's good," she cried—"good to live and see the sun! Monseigneur, I believe I'm a pagan—a sun-worshipper! When he's good enough to warm me through, and to make the water glitter for me, and shadows dance in such a cunning pattern on the hills, then I think I've done something that he likes, and that he's pleased with me!" She sprang to her feet and stretched out her hands towards the sun. "In the grave, I believe, I shall remember the glorious light; my memory of that could surely never die!"

His was the holiday mood, too. He fell in with her extravagance, meeting it with banter.

"It's only a lamp," he said, "just a lamp; and it's hung there for the sole purpose of showing Sophy's eyes. When she's not there, they put it out—for what's the use of it?"

"They put it out when I'm not there?"

"I've noticed it happen a dozen times of late."

"It lights up again when I come, Monseigneur?"

"Ah, then I forget to look!"

"You get very little sun anyhow, then!"

"I've something so much better."

It is pathetic to read—pathetic that she should have set it down as though every word of it were precious—set it down as minutely as she chronicled the details of the critical hours to which fate was soon to call her.

Yet, was she wrong? Days of idleness are not always the emptiest; life may justify its halts; our spirits may mount to their sublimest pitch in hours of play. At least, the temper of that holiday, and her eager prizing and recording of it, show well the manner of woman that she was—her passionate love of beauty, her eager stretching out to all that makes life beautiful, her spirit, sensitive to all around, taking color from this and that, reflecting back every ray which the bounty of nature or of man poured upon it, her great faculty of living. She wasted no days or hours. Ever receiving, ever giving, she spent her sojourn in a world that for her did much, yet never could do enough, to which she gave a great love, yet never seemed to herself to be able to give enough. Perhaps she was not wrong when she called herself a pagan. She was of the religion of joy; her kindest thought of the grave was that haply through some chink in its dark walls there might creep one tiny sunbeam of memory.

They rode home together as the sun was setting—a sun of ruddy gold, behind it one bright, purple cloud, the sky beyond blue, deepening almost into black. When Praslok came in sight, she laid her hand on his with a long-drawn sigh.

"We have been together to-day," she said. "That will be there always. Yes, the sun and the world were made for us this day—and we have been worthy."

He pressed her hand. "You were sent to teach me what joy is—the worth of the world to men who live in it. You're the angel of joy, Sophy. Before you came, I had missed that lesson."

"I'm very glad"—thus she ends her own record of this day of glory—"that I've brought joy to Monseigneur. He faces his fight joyful of heart." And then, with one of her absurd, deplorable, irresistible lapses into the merest ordinary feminine, she adds: "That red badge is just the touch my sheepskin cap wanted!"

Oh, Sophy, Sophy, what of that for a final reflection on the eve of Monseigneur's fight?