Up the steep ascent to the capital two men galloped their tired horses in stern silence. For twelve hours they had ridden with scant waste of breath in speech. Only at each change, and seven times since break of day, had they changed horses. Prince Ughtred had lit a fresh cigar and asked the same question and met with the same reply.

“How goes it, Nicholas?”

“We keep up with the time. Forward!”

As they neared the capital they rode through a stream of people wending their way citywards. Reist drew rein.

“Whither away, friends?”

“To the capital, sir. Prince Ughtred of Tyrnaus, our future King, is there. We go to greet him.”

The two men exchanged quick glances as they rode on.

“I do not understand it,” Reist admitted. “Our coming is unannounced. A certain amount of secrecy was necessary. Something strange seems to have happened.”

By degrees their progress along the narrow road grew more and more difficult. The country folk thronged the thoroughfare, gay in picturesque holiday attire, many of them singing a strange national air which stirred in Ughtred’s heart some faint echo of far-away recollections. He watched them eagerly, and his heart swelled with pride. A fine, stalwart race, with the free swinging walk of mountaineers, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, with cheeks as brown as berries. His dormant patriotism, already awakened by his long ride through the beautiful, dimly-familiar country, beat in his heart. He would rule these people as his children, and though he died sword in hand the yoke of the conqueror should never bow their shoulders. It was a great task—a great heritage.

A train, brilliant with lights, glided serpent-like over the high viaduct to their left. A murmur arose from amongst the people.

“The Prince,” they cried. “The Prince.”

“What does it mean?” Ughtred asked.

“God only knows,” Reist answered, bewildered.

At the station a cordon of soldiers blocked the way. The two men spurred on into the front ranks. Amongst a thunder of acclamation they saw Domiloff and Brand in his brilliant uniform take their places in the waiting carriage. They were speechless.

“To the palace,” Reist cried at last. “Come, Ughtred; there’s some damned underhand plotting going on.”

“It was Brand!” Ughtred exclaimed. “Brand in the uniform of the Theos Guards. Is the man mad?”

“I do not think that it was Brand at all,” Reist answered, fiercely. “It is a plot of that accursed Russian. Way, good people, way!”

But the people, good-natured though they were, were wedged too thickly to let them pass. At last in a rush they were almost unhorsed. A direct progress to the palace was impossible. Reist turned up a side street.

“We will go to my house,” he said. “It will take us some time this way, but we shall never succeed in reaching the palace.”

The panel slid back behind them, and closed with a spring. From some place upon the wall invisible to him the Countess took a small silver lamp, and carefully lit it. Then holding it high over her head she turned towards Brand.

“You must follow me closely,” she said. “The way is narrow, and there are steps. Listen!”

They both stood for a moment with bated breath. In the room behind was tumult. There were angry voices, the ringing of bells, bewildered exclamations.

“It is my friend, Domiloff,” Brand whispered. “I am afraid that he has lost his temper. I might at least have left a note.”

She motioned him to follow her.

“You are quite safe,” she declared. “The secret passage has not been used for many years. It is unknown to any within the palace. I do not know what made me think of it to-night.”

“It was,” Brand remarked, “a remarkable piece of good fortune for me. I do not fancy that our friend Domiloff in a passion would be at all a pleasant companion.”

Her face hardened.

“Domiloff,” she said, “is a traitor and a ruffian. When I saw you alone with him and without Nicholas I knew that something must have happened. My brother would never have suffered him to have stood by your side to-night. This way.”

They stepped into a large dimly-lit room, with high panelled walls and a vaulted roof. The door rolled back behind them. The girl passed her hands along the wall till even the crack was invisible. Then she moved to the table and struck a gong.

“You must need wine,” she said. “Basil!”

A grey-haired old servant entered the room, and at the sight of Brand would have fallen upon one knee, but the girl stopped him.

“Basil, this is not Prince Ughtred,” she said, “but a friend of his and ours who has been taking the Prince’s place in order that Domiloff might be deceived. Bring us some wine.”

Brand drank from the long Venetian glass, and afterwards sank gratefully into the high-backed chair to which she motioned him. At her request he told her everything which had happened since the coming of Reist to London. And from below there came to them often the murmur of the waiting crowds.

She was superbly devoid of nerves. She had no manner of apprehension.

“They will come,” she said, “and the people will wait. Tell me some more of your wonderful London.”

“You have never been there?” he exclaimed in astonishment.

She shook her head.

“No, nor in Paris even. No further west than Vienna.”

“It is incredible,” he murmured.

“And why incredible?” she asked him, with delicately upraised eyebrows. “I do not understand. Theos is my home—those places are nothing to me. Whilst I was in Vienna I was miserable. All was hurry and bustle. There was so little dignity, so little repose. I do not think that people who live in such places can understand what it is to love one’s homeland. Everywhere, too, even amongst the aristocracy, one met vulgar people. Shopkeepers and merchants who had made very much money mixed freely with the nobles. They tell me that in England it is also like this. In Theos I think that we are wiser.”

She spoke simply—as one who points out a grievous impropriety. Brand smiled.

“I have heard your country spoken of as one of the most aristocratic in the world,” he remarked. “I think that it must be true.”

“From what I have seen,” she answered, “it may be so. There are very little of the old nobility left in Theos, but we are content to let them die out rather than to raise to their ranks those who have enriched themselves with commerce. We believe that our way is best.”

“And you yourself?” he asked. “Tell me how you occupy yourself. You have friends—amusements?”

She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly.

“My brother has large estates,” she said, “and with them come many duties. I see that our peasant women are properly brought up, and that they retain their skill in lace work. Then there is music, and when we are at Castle Reist we hunt. It is true that I have not many friends of my own order, but that is scarcely to be expected. The care of so many of those who are dependent upon one is a very absorbing duty. We give a dowry to every girl who marries suitably amongst our own people. For many generations this has been a religion with us. Tell me, then, is it not so with the maidens of your country?—I speak, of course, of those who are of noble birth.”

He shook his head.

“I think not,” he answered. “You see, for them there are many diversions. They play games, hunt, shoot, and ride with their brothers and their brothers’ friends when they are at their estates. Then for half the year they live in London, and every night there are dances, concerts, theatres, and parties of all sorts.”

She nodded gravely.

“That is what I have heard,” she said. “They take life so much more lightly than we who live in quieter places. Here there is born with us the consciousness that our rank has many obligations. There is not a peasant girl on my estates whom I do not know by name. It has been so with the women of our house for many generations.”

There was a short silence. Then she raised her eyes to his.

“Your own sisters?” she asked. “Are they, too, such as you describe?”

Brand smiled faintly.

“I have only one sister,” he said, “and she is married. But my own people would scarcely count—from your point of view.”

She looked at him, faintly puzzled.

“You mean,” she asked, “that you are not of noble birth?”

He shook his head.

“By no means! My father was a physician, and I myself write for the newspapers!”

“But you spoke of Prince Ughtred,” she remarked, “as your friend.”

He smiled.

“In England,” he explained, “all these things are regarded very differently. We are a very democratic nation, and Prince Ughtred, you must remember, is half an Englishman.”

She was silent. He had an absurd fancy that she was disappointed—that her momentary interest in him was gone. He was angry with himself for the idea, angry with himself also for the effort which his little speech had cost him. In England he counted himself a Radical, almost a Socialist, and would have laughed to scorn the idea that the slightest possible barrier could exist between men and women of unequal birth. But out here, in the presence of this girl who spoke her mind so simply, yet with such absolute conviction, he seemed to have come into touch with a new order! The aristocracy which was to her as a creed was a real and a live thing! He almost justified her in his mind. What was surely a fallacy in England might be truth here.

The silence was prolonged. Then he glanced up to find her watching him with a slight smile curving her lips.

“To you,” she said, “I must seem very old-fashioned. Oh, yes, I can understand your point of view. If I have not travelled I have at least read, and your English books make these things clear enough. But here we are surrounded with the old customs. It is not possible to escape from them. We are almost mediÆval.”

“I am looking forward to studying your country closely,” he said. “What I have seen of it has charmed me. So far I have come across but one thing which I would gladly change.”

“And that?” she asked.

“Is the uniform of the Thetian Guards,” he answered, turning slightly in his chair. “I must confess that my body was never made for such gorgeousness.”

She laughed and struck the gong.

“Basil will show you to my brother’s room,” she said. “Wear any of his clothes you choose.”

He rose with alacrity.

“You will be safe—alone?” he asked, with a doubtful glance towards the door.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Domiloff has courage, I believe, of a sort,” she answered, “but not enough to bring him uninvited across the threshold of this house in my brother’s absence.”

He followed the servant from the room, and was shown into a bedchamber of huge proportions. He changed his clothes as quickly as possible for those which were tendered to him, and returned to the room where he had left the Countess. She welcomed him with a smile which she tried in vain to suppress.

“You must forgive me,” she said, as their eyes met. “Indeed, it is hard to avoid a smile. My brother is of slight stature, and you are very tall,—is it not so?”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he answered, good-humouredly, conscious that his trousers terminated at the ankle, and that the seams of his unbuttoned coat were bursting. “I should be comfortable in anything since I have got rid of that sword and the other thing like a satchel which kept tripping me up. The management of a woman’s train has always seemed to me an accomplishment, but it is nothing compared with the difficulty of walking like a soldier with those things whacking at your ankles every few moments. One thing I can promise you and myself, Countess. If Domiloff and the whole lot of them catch me nothing would induce me to put on that uniform again.”

“It was very becoming,” she said, smilingly.

“You are making fun of me,” he declared, reproachfully.

“Indeed I meant it,” she assured him. “I never doubted but that you were Ughtred of Tyrnaus!”

He felt absurdly pleased. There was a note of regret too in her tone. Then, as though with some effort she addressed him more formally.

“You need have no fear,” she said, “that Domiloff will find you here. Neither he nor any of his creatures dare force their way into this house. All that we must pray for now is the speedy coming of Nicholas and the Prince.”

Almost as she spoke they heard quick footsteps upon the corridor outside. The door was thrown open.