There are some periods which offer to the backward glance of memory rather a blur of blended color than a distinct picture, a rich and shining tapestry in which no one thread can be distinguished. So always to Allard seemed that first week in the country he learned to call home. The stately ceremonies of Stanief's reception and assumption of the regency; the dazzle and pageantry of the court even when thus subdued by mourning; his own sudden importance as the favorite of the actual sovereign, all merged into a glittering confusion through which he moved automatically.

But there were two incidents which detached themselves from the bright background and always remained with him. The first was the first morning when Stanief formally met the Emperor at the palace; and, as he had stooped to the salute, Adrian had deliberately given him an embrace so markedly affectionate that even Allard felt the significant thrill that ran through the room. And then, even while the unusual color still flushed Stanief's dark cheek, Adrian shot a glance at a sharp-faced man opposite, a glance so sneering, so bitterly triumphant, that the straightforward American actually shrank from the revelation of dual thought. Evidently the embrace was given less to please Stanief than to annoy this other. Seeing the man's rigidly held face beneath the ordeal, he knew without question that this was the Baron Dalmorov whose desire in life was to prevent this very friendship between the cousins.

Never again did Allard make the mistake of measuring Adrian by his few years.

The second event was near the end of the week,—one noon when Stanief came home from a visit to the palace and found Allard alone.

"Do you remember the trust you offered to take for me?" he asked abruptly. And, without waiting an assent, "You are summoned to it already."

"Monseigneur?"

"The Emperor this morning asked me to add you to his household. It is more than I hoped to gain, that he should himself make the request; yet—"

They looked at each other, Allard startled and half dismayed, Stanief's velvet eyes less tranquil than usual.

"Yet I shall miss you, John," he concluded, his voice a caress.

The regret and the tone lay unforgotten in the closed room of Allard's heart. Years after, he could turn and find them there.

So from the gorgeous household of the Regent one man passed to the still more gorgeous palace. Vasili and Count Rosal regarded him with respectful envy; he was elected to membership of the two clubs of the capital's jeunesse dorÉe, and overwhelmed with friends and invitations.

But the Emperor was not at all inclined to let his new companion remain away from him very much, and Allard was quite as willing to stay at what he privately considered the post of duty. So it happened that he went riding with Adrian more frequently than he went motoring with Rosal, and accepted readily a routine which left him few hours unoccupied.

It was not possible to live at the palace without learning many things. But it required just one day for Allard to learn enough of Adrian to make him smile at ever having thought Stanief imperious. The desire for absolute dominion and power over those near him was the most obvious characteristic of this descendant of a hundred autocrats. Moreover, he tolerated no contradiction, no evasion of a resolve.

"You are not rich in your own right, Monsieur Allard?" he said one day, with his mature directness and self-possession.

They were strolling up and down a terrace overlooking the river, and Allard involuntarily paused in surprise and with no slight embarrassment.

"No longer, sire," he admitted, truth coming as the one course.

"My cousin,—you served him as his secretary?"

"Yes, sire."

Adrian sat down on a broad marble seat under the trees, lifting his head with the movement usually to be translated as a signal of danger.

"You serve me at present, not the Regent. As one of my household, you will accept from me in future."

"Pardon me, sire—"

"I will have it so, monsieur. You must be all mine, all. I shall speak to Feodor. Why do you object? You do, then, consider yourself his, not mine?"

"Sire, you misinterpret; I am assuredly of your service."

"Then you accept?"

Allard met the flashing gaze helplessly; it was the other Adrian, distrustful, jealous, haughty, whom he faced and to whom he yielded.

"It is as you wish, sire, of course. I thank you."

"You do not," he retorted shrewdly, although his brow relaxed. "Why did you resist?"

Again Allard took refuge in the simple truth, a little sadly.

"We Americans, sire, are not accustomed to serve, I am afraid. We would stand alone. If I could accept the Grand Duke Feodor's protection without such reluctance, it was because of old reasons and old love."

"For him?"

"Yes, sire."

"Do you know Dalmorov secretly urges to me your love for Feodor as a cause for dismissing you?"

"I had not known it, although I might have guessed. But you could not believe me, sire, if I told you I did not love him."

"No; you are very easy to read. And I know more: I know that Feodor is glad to have you near me, although he is fond of keeping you with himself. Why?"

Allard regarded his keen young inquisitor candidly.

"Because—I use his own phrase, sire—because I am the only one that he feels he can wholly trust."

Adrian's eyes opened, then he laughed outright and the sinister personality faded altogether from his expression.

"You tell me that yourself, Monsieur Allard? Oh, if Dalmorov could hear you! Never mind; perhaps Feodor is deceiving you, perhaps you are both sincere, but certainly you yourself are all truthful. His turn also comes to-day, my cousin's."

"I do not understand—"

"It is not necessary. I am going to receive him here, this morning. After he arrives, pray stay at the other end of the terrace and let no one pass to disturb us."

This daily visit of the Regent had become a matter of course. Sometimes it found Adrian surrounded by many people, sometimes alone, more often with Allard, as now. And never was he so sweetly gracious to Stanief as in Dalmorov's presence; although, as Stanief knew perfectly well, at other times he listened without rebuke to the baron's constant insinuations and warnings. If the young Emperor had confidence in no one, most assuredly no one could risk a judgment of his real thoughts. Only one sentiment he took no care to conceal: for whatever reason, he liked the regular visit and would suffer nothing to prevent it.

However puzzled by the last suggestion, Allard could only comply with the request and retire as Stanief came down the steps a moment later. And Stanief, seeing Adrian waiting alone, left his aide at the head of the terrace and alone came to him. So, Vasili at one end of the grassy ledge, Allard at the other, the cousins were for once unobserved.

Adrian's expression was unusually animated as Stanief bent over his hand.

"Do you know why I wished to see you out here in quietness, cousin?" he demanded.

"I am afraid not, sire," Stanief confessed, smiling.

"Then sit down here," he touched the bench on which he himself was seated, "and I will tell you."

Stanief obeyed, and Adrian surveyed his stately kinsman with earnest, though doubting intentness.

"That night on the Nadeja," he at last said, "when you told me that I governed, 'but'—were you in earnest? It amused me to tell Dalmorov—not all you said or when you said it, of course—yet some of that. I told him you had promised to do as I wished, and he insisted that you played with me. Were you in earnest, I wonder?"

"Absolutely in earnest," Stanief answered, too well trained in self-mastery to betray his irritation at being discussed with his rival in the game of the future.

"'But'—" Adrian repeated, and sat silent for an instant. "Were you ever in love with a woman, cousin?"

The question was so unexpected that Stanief started and replied almost at random:

"No, sire."

"Dalmorov says that you were, long ago."

"Dalmorov," the other began, then checked himself, his tone chilling. "The incident to which Baron Dalmorov doubtless refers, sire, hardly answers your question. Ten years ago, when I was less than twenty-two, I was briefly attracted toward a lady of the court. The affair died in its birth, on my discovering that mademoiselle was acting as the paid spy of the Emperor, your father. Since then I have thought of more important matters."

Adrian leaned back, his slim fingers twisted together.

"That was the Countess Sophia Mirkoff," he supplemented calmly, "whose husband you pardoned from the Two Saints last month; Dalmorov informed me. Was that because you still care?"

"No; because I would not have her imagine I remember enough for prejudice," Stanief answered, with glacial indifference.

The approving fire shot across the boy's lowered eyes, his pride sprang to comprehension of the other's.

"I am glad it is so," he said sedately. "I have been arranging your marriage, cousin."

If the terrace had crumbled beneath them, Stanief could have been no more astounded than at this.

"I beg your pardon!" he gasped.

"Why not? It is my privilege," Adrian returned, not moving.

Stanief opened his lips, and closed them again. The green and gold garden, the blue river and white city spread below, swam in a dazzle of color. He had never been more deeply annoyed, or more furiously angry with Dalmorov. But habitual self-control again aided him.

"I have no desire to marry, or time to give to such a distraction at present, sire," he answered.

"You would have to marry sooner or later, cousin."

"Then permit it to be later. After your coronation, if you still insist."

Adrian's small mouth set in a firm line rivaling the Regent's own.

"I wish it now. I have arranged that you shall marry the Princess IrÍa of Spain."

"Sire, forgive me if I presume to remind your Imperial Majesty that I have the right of questioning an order so personal."

The steel-hard anger of Stanief's voice struck fire from the flint of Adrian's determination.

"So I rule you!" he flashed tempestuously. "So you meant your pretty phrases! Dalmorov was right, right. You played with me, and I will never pardon you, Feodor Stanief."

Stanief drew back, realizing all the trap prepared for him.

"You are severe, sire," he retorted with dignity. "Perhaps reflection upon how unexpected this is, upon how serious to me is the amusement which to you signifies nothing, may win your indulgence. My life is full to overflowing; there is no place in it for a wife."

"You refuse?"

Stanief bit his lip.

"No, sire; I protest."

Adrian stood up, and the other perforce rose with him.

"You yourself said it," the boy stated, his chest heaving with passion. "Now, the test. I have the right; you know it. Do you govern me, or I you?"

"Sire—"

"You or I?"

Stanief looked very steadily into the blazing young eyes, himself colorless with the restraint forced upon his own emotions.

"I believed there were two promises given on the Nadeja, sire," he answered, never so quietly. "It seems that only one is to be remembered and that Baron Dalmorov wins. But I make no complaint; I suppose your last question was hardly serious."

"You consent?"

"I obey," he corrected pointedly.

At once victorious, and dominated by his kinsman's bearing, Adrian flung himself on the seat and motioned the other to the place beside him. But Stanief remained standing, choosing not to see the invitation, and there was a pause.

"I do remember my promise," Adrian declared, proudly reverting to the reproach of a few moments before. "If I have made you do this, cousin, it was not to please Dalmorov."

Stanief bowed, answering nothing.

"The lady—you will have heard of her. I met her last year on the Riviera. In her country they call her the Gentle Princess, because—she is. And she is very lovely."

Still the dark face was unstirred. His object gained, Adrian fretted and chafed before the change he himself had wrought.

"You are like Monsieur Allard; you do not want to yield your will," he said, half petulantly, half haughtily. "He is mine, you gave him to me; yet he did not like it because I said that no longer shall his fortune come from any one but me. Why?"

"He is an American, sire."

"Why does that make a difference between you and me?"

"I love him, sire."

The cold explanation coincided perfectly with Allard's; illogically Adrian felt a pang of isolation before this friendship, although he would not have believed either if they had professed the same affection for him.

"The churches are ringing the hour," he remarked, the sullen child struggling with the Emperor. "If you wish to go, as usual, you have my leave."

"Thank you, sire; my hours are indeed crowded."

"You are willing to ask the Princess IrÍa in marriage?"

"As you dispose, sire."

Satisfied and dissatisfied, Adrian held out his hand.

"You are not content, cousin," he accused. "You think me unkind."

Stanief paused to meet the wilful gaze.

"Perhaps I think of a day the years are bringing, sire," he replied gravely, and bent his head still lower to the jeweled fingers which grasped so much.

Adrian flushed scarlet.

"No," he denied fiercely. "Feodor, you can not believe I will fail you if you do not me? You can not think that then, after that—"

Stanief did not help him at all. Taking refuge in wordlessness, Adrian left the sentence unfinished and let his cousin go, with an assumption of dignity that hardly concealed the sting of the rebuke he had received. But he did not offer to relinquish the purpose so distasteful to Stanief.

For half an hour the terrace remained hushed and silent under the noon sunshine, the tree-shadows wavering back and forth across the small, motionless figure.

"Monsieur Allard!" at last the summons rang.

Allard returned serenely, of course ignorant of the recent stormy discussion.

"In a few months," Adrian stated, without looking at him, "the Princess IrÍa de Bourbon will come here to be married to the Regent. I wish you to be one of the escort that will meet her and bring her to the capital."

"But, sire—"

"You are surprised?"

"I did not know the Grand Duke contemplated marriage, sire," Allard explained, stunned.

"He did not; it is I who contemplated it. You will go?"

"Surely there will be many more fitted for such an honor. Of course it will be as you arrange, sire; but I would rather stay here."

Adrian moved, sighing; his lip took a softer curve and for the first time he almost looked his few years. "If you like her, monsieur, Feodor will like her. I want you to see her, to tell him good of her. She is different from any one else—when we were both in Italy we saw each other every day, and I know. She is so gentle; I want her here."

Allard gazed at him in utter wonder.

"Feodor believes I force the marriage to annoy him and please Dalmorov. It is not so; it is because I want IrÍa here. You understand that?"

"I am trying, sire."

Adrian stood up decisively.

"Let us go in. When the time comes, you shall go with her escort."