THERE was no time to be lost, as it was now noon, Saturday, and the wedding was to be on Monday. As soon as Ernestine came Erica began to act.

“You must go back home at once,” she said to her. “You have forgotten your clothes; that will do as a pretext. Send your brother to Schaffhausen on the first train. He must see Mr. Brandt and tell him to meet me to-night at the first cross-road beyond the park gates. I shall try to be there at one. If I can come at all, it will not be later than three. If he cannot come, he will find me at the Hotel Rhein to-morrow, or next day, under the name of Madam von Briesen.”

As Ernestine left The Castle a soldier joined her, saying: “My orders are to go with you and let no one speak to you except in my presence.”

Ernestine took this news with a seeming of great cheerfulness, and jested with her guard all the way to town. Her family lived in three rooms, and with a little diplomacy she easily delivered her message to her brother in the rear room while the soldier sat in the front room drinking beer with her youngest sister. But she did not venture to call at Windmuller’s, in Duke Albrecht Street.

When she returned to The Castle the preparations for the wedding were going forward apace. The central part, where were the principal rooms of state, was open at every window and door; tradespeople were coming and going; there were sounds of hammering, clouds of dust from the windows, a press of wagons about the doors. The Grand Duke had decided to make the wedding a big, public affair, so that Erica would feel that it was impossible to retreat. And he had left it open whether the ceremony itself was to be public or private.

At eleven that night Ernestine crept softly down the corridor and reconnoitred both stairways leading from the apartments of Her Serene Highness to the lower floors. At the foot of each was a soldier with a huge white rosette on his left arm, in honor of the coming gayeties. Erica had expected this; she simply wished to discover where the enemy lay. She dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant of the Household Guards. When she and Ernestine had made it, two years before, she had been full of the idea of running away for several days to “see the world” from a man’s point of view. But her audacity failed her—that is, she permitted the obstacles to seem insurmountable, and she never got beyond parading her rooms in it, with Ernestine as a critic of her counterfeit of a man’s figure and walk. The feat she now proposed would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible, in woman’s dress.

She was putting the finishing touches to her masculine toilet when Ernestine hurried into her dressing-room in a panic. Baron Zeppstein was waiting to see her. Erica drew off her top-boots and thrust her feet into a pair of slippers; she drew on a loose wrapper, tied a white shawl about her shoulders, and, letting down her hair, appeared before the Baron.

Zeppstein’s old head was almost knocking his swollen knee-joints. “By His Royal Highness’s command, Your Serene Highness,” he said, humbly, “I come to inquire of you in person whether you are entirely comfortable.”

Erica was gracious, bade him sit, asked about the preparations for the wedding in detail, made several adroit remarks which seemed to indicate that she was secretly preparing to yield but did not wish to gratify the Grand Duke and humiliate herself by relieving his suspense. Zeppstein went away convinced, and was able to make a convincing report which stood the test of Casimir’s exhaustive and searching cross-examination.It was now midnight and Ernestine put out all lights. She was to go to bed, and if any one came and insisted upon seeing her mistress, she was to detain him as long as possible, and profess ignorance and alarm should the flight be discovered.

Erica advanced down the lofty stone passage-way. It was an alternation of bands of darkness and bands of moonlight. She took the second corridor to the left and stole along it until, in the darkness, her foot touched the first step of the ascending stairway. She went up, opened the door at the top, and entered. When she had bolted this door she breathed more freely.

She went up a second and narrower flight of stairs and slipped through a window to a small balcony. It was in the full moonlight, but it looked only upon the roofs and the deserted battlements of The Castle. Holding to the ridge of stone above her head she stepped to the next balcony. From this she was able to go out upon the ledge extending along the huge tower fifteen or twenty feet above the battlements. The ledge was narrow and there was no hold for her hands. She clung to the wall and sidled slowly along, feeling her way with her feet and her body. She did not dare open her eyes except when she paused.

At last she came to the place where the ledge passed immediately above and very close to the pointed roof of the throne-room. She stepped down softly and cautiously; the roof was steep, and, should she slip, she would slide to the edge, where, if she did not fall to the battlements, she would cling until rescued and returned to captivity. She worked herself along the ridge of the roof to the great circular skylight which divided it into two parts. She glanced down through one of the open sections. Scores of people were at work decorating the throne-room for the wedding.

“If I fail,” she thought, “I shall be forced there, perhaps, and it is set for to-morrow!”

The last qualm of nervousness left her. She walked the ledge round the skylight and crawled out upon the pointed roof beyond. She drew herself along it until she was above one of the windows projecting from the slope of the roof. She let herself down; she touched the cap of the window; she slid slowly along the outer edge of its frame until she was able to reach round into it.

It was fastened. Clinging to roof and window-frame she unbuckled her sword, and with it broke a pane of glass. She listened; not a sound after the echo of the crash had died away. Then she became conscious that some one else was on that roof.

With heart beating wildly and body trembling she peered round the window-frame. Far away along the ridge of the roof she saw a shape which was unmistakably a man’s. And as she watched, it moved; it was some one coming from the eastern end towards her. Had he seen her, or had he come after she had slid behind the window-frame? She feared he was on his way to intercept her, but she did not lose heart.

She reached through the broken pane and unfastened the window and opened it. Then, with as little noise and as little exposure of herself as the profound quiet and the brightness of the moon permitted, she crawled round the projecting frame and into the window. She ventured to glance out and upward again; the man was creeping along the ridge; he had passed the point where he would have begun to descend towards her if he had seen or heard her; he was moving in the direction from which she had come. With a long sigh she closed the window. “Two minutes later,” she said to herself, “and I should have been taken.”

She was in an empty room, in the attic of the extreme eastern end of the central part of The Castle. She brushed her uniform, straightened her belt and sword, set her helmet well forward on her head, and sallied forth. She went down the stairway, cobwebs clinging to her face and sounds of the movements of disturbed creatures—bats or birds—coming to her through the darkness. At the foot of a second and long flight of stairs she found herself on the landing from which two great corridors branched—the one to the right leading to liberty, the one to the left leading to her cousin Aloyse’s apartments.

Some one was coming towards her in the corridor to the right; she was compelled to take Aloyse’s corridor. The footsteps—they were cautious footsteps—followed her. She shrank into a niche and stood like a statue. As the man passed a window the moonlight revealed him to her—Prince von Moltzahn. He was disregarding her uncle’s prohibition and was coming to see Aloyse. He opened a door so nearly opposite where she stood that she could see into the room—could see Aloyse, in a dressing-gown, seated at a table on which was a tray containing bottles of whiskey and soda.

“Ah! von Moltzahn; you were never so welcome. No; leave the door open. It’s frightful in here. I can’t breathe. Help yourself to the whiskey.”

“I expected to find you ill,” said Moltzahn. “His Royal Highness has given out that you have a fever.”

“Yes; and he’s shut me up here until the wedding. He treats me like a dog. But wait until I’m married and get hold of some cash. He won’t be able to keep his feet on my neck then.”

“But why has he shut you in?”

“I wanted to tell Her Serene Highness that I’d killed that American pig.”

Erica heard; but not until the words had repeated themselves again and again in her brain did she understand them. Her cousin went on: “He was pleased when I told him; he gave me one of his peaches. But he doesn’t want her to know about it. He doesn’t understand women’s—”

“What was that?” exclaimed Moltzahn, and both leaped to their feet. Aloyse rushed to the doorway.

Erica had sunk straight down to the floor, and, as her collapsed body fell over, her sword and helmet clashed against the stone. Aloyse, looking into the dimness, could see the form of a soldier—suggestions of the uniform of the Household Guards. He muttered a curse.

“What is it?” called Moltzahn.

“The old brute has put a guard over me,” said Aloyse, turning back, “and the fellow’s in a drunken sleep. You’d better go.”

Moltzahn fled, with only a glance at Erica, and Aloyse closed his door and went sullenly to bed. Gradually the coolness of the stone revived her. She sat up—and remembered. She could not imagine, did not try to imagine, how long she had lain there or why she had not been discovered. A wave of desolation swept over her. She had thought she loved this man who had come into her life so suddenly, who had taken her heart by storm, who had opened for her a way of escape from a wearisome life which marriage to her cousin would have made hideous, unendurable. But she did not until now realize how much she loved him—not as her liberator but as her lover. “No; he is not dead!” her heart protested. “Aloyse is a liar, a braggart. There is some mistake.”

She dragged herself to her feet. “I will go back,” she moaned. “Dead—my love is dead!” She knew that it was the truth; she felt that it was a lie. “But I shall go back—”

To what? To be the wife of the man she had heard boasting of his murder. She became suddenly strong. “Never! Never!” And aching with grief, yet hoping beside the corpse of hope, she rushed on until she was almost in the arms of a sentinel. She turned back and dropped upon a bench round a corner a few feet from him. The big bell of the chapel boomed half-past one. She rose and went a few steps in the direction of Aloyse’s room. Hate, a passion for vengeance, was bounding through her veins; she would wrench the truth from him, then kill him.

But now there came the sound of several shots and confused shouts. The sentinel ran, and she turned and followed him across one of the huge entrance halls out into the open; the cool air from the mountains poured upon her, and her heart began to revive. She saw a man dart from the shadow of The Castle’s walls to the west, strike down a soldier who barred his path, and run zig-zag towards the forest. All were rushing in that direction, and she ran also, but as quickly as she could plunged into the deep shadows. She made a dÉtour and took a course parallel to the road that led to the park gates, two miles and a half away. She must get to the cross-roads where Ernestine’s brother would be waiting—to tell her that her lover was dead! But instead of enfeebling her the thought carried only enough conviction of its truth to inflame her desire to get away—to fly where she would never again see the wretch who had desolated her.

There was some one in the shadow ahead; it must be the escaping robber. But how would he—how would she—pass the sentinel at the park gates? The alarm must have been signalled from The Castle. She was almost exhausted. She could see the robber—he was between her and the one dim gate-lamp over the small side gate. He heard her coming and whirled about.

“Come on!” she panted, hoarsely; were they not companions in flight? “I’ll get you through!”

He followed her as she ran straight for the sentry, who was standing with his gun at a challenge.

“Halt!” said the sentry, loudly.

“Quick! Quick! Open!” she panted. The robber, who had been standing aloof, suspicious of her now that he saw her uniform, came forward. The sentry also noted the uniform and saluted. “There’s been a robbery or something at The Castle—” he began.

“Yes—yes,” she gasped. “That’s it—open—don’t delay us!”

The sentry stupidly stood aside, and she and the robber dashed through the side gate and down the dark road abreast.

“Hi! Come back!” yelled the sentry, his slow wits at last collecting in a doubt. He sent a shot after them.

But they ran the faster, getting into the deepest shadow. At the second bend from the gates she stopped and sank into the grass. The robber stopped also.

“Go on,” she gasped, in a whisper; her voice was all but gone. “Don’t mind me.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” he said. At the sound of his voice she rose up, flung her arms about his neck, and fainted.

“Well!” ejaculated the man. “What’ll I do with him?” He held her in his arms, looking helplessly about. He tried to lift her to his shoulders, but he was too exhausted to bear the additional weight. He laid her in the grass and ran on down the road.

She came to in the dampness and cold of the long grass. As she sat up a troop of cavalry rushed by on its way to the town. She began to remember; she had got the robber through the gates, and then delirium had seized her and she had fancied he was Grafton—no, it was not delirium; he was Grafton! She understood now; her message had not reached him, but he had come on his own plan; it was he who passed her on the roof of the throne-room; it was he who, seeking her, had been discovered, and, making a dash for liberty, had given her the chance to escape—no, it was not delirium. But where was he now? She could hear only the murmur of the woods. Why had he left her after she had flung her arms about his neck?

From far down the road in the direction of the town came a rush and roar as of a locomotive. She rose to her knees, to her feet. It was a racing-automobile. As it drew near its pace slackened and its noise grew louder. It came to a stop a few feet from her and stood shaking and panting.“Somewhere along here,” she heard, in Grafton’s voice, and he leaped from the seat and came into the shadow. “Oh, there you are! Why didn’t you call out? Come, get in here!” And he caught her by the arm. “Don’t you hear the cavalry coming back?” He half lifted, half flung her into the seat and leaped in himself. “Turn about, Burroughs, and go straight for ’em!”

She tried to speak, but she was dumb, limp. The automobile sprang forward and was soon going at a tremendous pace; it would have been impossible for a voice to be heard. She looked ahead; the wind was shrieking in her ears; the cavalrymen had halted in a moonlit stretch of the road.

She could see their pistols lifting. “They are about to fire!” she thought.She flung off her helmet, released her hair, and stood up. The moon was shining full upon her face and upon her long hair streaming and gleaming behind her. She saw the pistols instantly fall before the apparition of “Her Serene Highness,” and the horses reined back upon their haunches. The automobile rushed past them at the speed of an express train and fled, unpursued and unpursuable, along the military road towards the Swiss border.

She felt somebody’s arms close about her and then somebody’s kisses on her face.