"Better the cloister's quiet shade than a throne on such terms."

"It is not the cloister's quiet shade that you will see, but the interior of a Russian fortress. In occupying the throne of Czernova you will be accused of a.s.suming rights the reversion of which belongs to the Czar, inasmuch as he is next heir after the duke. The Czar will see in your usurpation an affront to his dignity. He will demand that you be sent to Russia, there to take your trial. And the cowardly duke will comply. You know how much 'the politician in petticoats' is hated by the Russian ministry, and what justice you are likely to receive at their hands. When the black wall of a Muscovite fortress girdles you round forever," he added in a significant whisper, "when rough soldiers are your jailers, when no cry of yours can penetrate to the outer world, then--then the love of a cardinal even would be a desirable thing."

Barbara could not repress a feeling of horror at the picture suggested by these words.

"If the duke should rule he will rule merely as the va.s.sal of the Czar, and Czernova will become a province of Russia. Therefore, consider well your decision. You ruin not yourself only, but the faithful friends dependent upon you. Zabern, Radzivil, Dorislas, all the ministers whose policy has offended the Czar, will be delivered up to him by the duke. Czernova will be overrun by Cossack soldiery, and placed under martial law. Her young men will be drafted off to serve in the Russian army. The university will be closed, the Catholic Church persecuted. The wailings of Czernova will mount upward to Heaven, but when did Heaven ever listen to the cry of the oppressed?

Princess, it is true I require of you a sacrifice, but it is a sacrifice meriting the name of virtue. The fate of a nation hangs upon your answer. How easy for you to save them by conferring happiness upon me!"

He could not have employed an argument more adapted to gain his end than an appeal to the welfare of the people whom she loved; nevertheless, it had altogether failed, as he saw by the sovereign scorn that curved her lips.

"You are master of my secret, but not of me. Though I err in bearing the name of Natalie, I am nevertheless the lawful princess of Czernova; and Heaven, being just, will maintain me in my rights. He sets himself a hard task, cardinal, who proposes to fight against the truth. Reveal my story to the duke--to the Diet, to the whole princ.i.p.ality--this very day, if you will. I fear you not. I will do nothing to stop you. I will wait to see whether you will be bold enough to play this traitor's game. And when you have done your worst to destroy the princess, and failed, then beware the vengeance of Zabern; for though you fly to the secret recesses of the Vatican, and cling to the holy robe of Pio Nono himself, Zabern will find and slay you. There is my answer both to your threats and to your l.u.s.t, for call not your desires by the sacred name of love."

The cardinal gave a mock bow.

"Princess, I will not yet draw the sword against you, confident that time and reflection will bring you wisdom. Reign till your coronation-eve, when I will return to this theme."

His cold smile gave little indication of the volcano of pa.s.sion that was burning within him. The sight of the distant sentinels alone kept him from seizing and holding Barbara within his arms. Brilliant in youth and loveliness she tortured him; and he resolved to torture in turn, since the means of doing so were at his disposal.

"Ere I take my leave," he said, "let me tell you of an event that took place this morning. Nay, princess, do not turn away. The story will interest you as no other story can."

Something in Ravenna's manner compelled Barbara to pause and face him again.

"Princess, prepare yourself for a surprise. One whom we both thought dead now proves to be living."

Despite her loathing of the cardinal, Barbara found herself forced to utter one word,--

"Who?"

"One whose supposed demise caused you to say that you would forever carry a dead heart within your breast."

The princess gave a great start, and placed her hand upon her side.

With a foreboding of what was to come she stood immovable, mute, scarcely breathing.

"Isola Sacra was certainly submerged. We both saw that. But ere it sank the captive must have escaped, for a young Englishman calling himself Paul Cressingham Woodville put up last evening at the Hotel de Varsovie."

Barbara was powerless to speak, but the look in her eyes was a language that plainly said, "Is it the same?"

The cardinal understood her silent question.

"The same. For verification I sent to the Police Bureau where strangers register themselves. These little particulars on his _carte de sejour_ leave no doubt on the matter."

Here Ravenna drew forth a paper and began reading from it. "'Name: Paul Woodville, formerly Paul Cressingham. Age: twenty-seven.

Nationality: English. Residence: Oriel Hall, Kent, England. Religion: Anglican Church. Calling: Captain in the Twenty-fourth Kentish, a cavalry regiment. Object in visiting Czernova: The pleasure of travelling,' Humph! was that the motive that drew him here? Princess, do you mark the name Woodville? Your Dalmatian hero has been distinguishing himself, for he is none other than the Englishman who conducted the defence of Taj.a.pore."

Emotion caused Barbara to sink upon a marble seat. She knew that Ravenna was speaking, but she heard not his words. She was oblivious of everything, but the one overwhelming thought that Paul was alive, and at that very moment within her own city of Slavowitz!

Her feelings were eloquently testified by the new and radiant light that came over her face, by her lips parted in an unconscious smile, by her bosom heaving beneath its foam of white lace. Never had the princess looked so lovely in the cardinal's eyes as now. Lost in a delicious daze she was quite forgetful of his presence, as he himself perceived, for two or three questions addressed to her evoked no recognition.

Her pleasure struck a pang to his jealous heart. What would he not have given to be the cause of such transfiguration? But though he could not create such joy, he could extinguish it, and would; and observing that Barbara was awaking from her day-dream, and endeavoring to fix her attention upon him, he proceeded,--

"Captain Woodville--to call him by his new name--saw you this morning from the balcony of the Hotel de Varsovie. Knowing that you cannot really be Natalie Lilieska he will, of course, conclude that you are an impostor."

How could Paul, ignorant of her true history, come to any other conclusion? The thought sent a sudden chill to her warm feelings.

"These Englishmen pride themselves on their blunt honesty and plain dealing. What will he think when he sees that in the sacred matter of religion you are acting the hypocrite, in secret a Catholic, yet for the sake of self-interest publicly posing as a Greek!"

Yes; it was true. In name and religion she was a living lie. How she must have fallen in Paul's esteem! Her quickly changing expression gave pleasure to the cardinal.

"He saw the duke publicly kiss your hand, and must thus have learned of your betrothal. Inquiries as to Bora's character must cause him to marvel at the taste which selects this Scythian barbarian for your consort."

Every word went, as intended, to Barbara's heart. Paul, not knowing that she had believed him dead, must have thought himself forgotten by her. How she longed to see him, to explain the difficulties of her position, to set matters right between them!

Regardless of what court officials might think, she would send an equerry this same day to the Hotel de Varsovie with a message to the effect that the Princess of Czernova was desirous of an interview with Captain Paul Woodville.

"If it be sweet to learn that the dear friends whom we have long thought dead are alive, how bitter it must be to lose them again, ere we can have the opportunity of seeing them!"

"What do you mean?"

Barbara did not speak these words. The question was put by the eager, fearful look of her eyes.

"It seems that the duke and Captain Woodville--I crave your Highness's pardon, Captain Woodville and the duke--met by chance on the balcony of the Hotel de Varsovie. A sapphire seal worn by the Englishman attracted the notice of the duke, inasmuch as he recognized it as a former gift of his to the Princess Natalie. The Englishman refused to state how he came by its possession, with the result that there is to be a duel over the matter."

"Mother of G.o.d!"

But for her dark arched eyebrows and dusky glowing eyes, the princess's face might have been taken for a piece of white sculpture.

"It is to be no mock contest. They fight with sabres and to the death."

"They shall not fight," gasped Barbara, finding her voice at last. "I shall send a troop to the Ducal Palace to arrest Bora--now--at once."

"Too late! princess," answered Ravenna in a mocking voice. "They fight this very day, within an hour from now. The combatants are already on their way to the rendezvous in the Red Forest. The swiftest horse of the Ukraine could not reach the spot in time for you to stay the duel.

And granting that you should arrive in time you would be powerless; for, in order to avoid breaking the Czernovese law, Ostrova, the duke's second, has fixed the place of combat on the Russian side of the frontier, where your authority does not extend."

White as the princess's face was it grew whiter still as Ravenna proceeded in a fierce exultant tone,--

"You know the duke's reputation as a _beau sabreur_. Thirty duels, and never a wound has he received in any one of them; that is his record.

In the Czernovese army are twenty thousand men, not one of whom, unless he wish for death, dares face the duke's deadly blade. You yourself have witnessed his feats in the _salle d'armes_; you have seen him disarm in swift succession the best fencers among your officers.--Zabern, Dorislas, Miroslav! Who can stand before the duke?"

He paused for a moment, and then, pointing to the sun shimmering through the leaves of the linden-trees, he added,--

"Princess, ere that golden orb has set, your English hero will be lying dead upon the turf, slain by the hand of the man whom you would make your husband."

Barbara heard no more. With a cry of "O Paul, Paul,"--a cry in which love and grief were intermingled,--she slid from her seat, and lay as one dead at the feet of the cardinal.

CHAPTER V