Mosco unfastened the clasp, and then evidently wishing to be thought clear of all suspicion of designedly choosing his lection, he turned away his head, and with nimble fingers threw open the volume; and yet in spite of this, Zabern was impressed with the belief that the Greek prelate knew beforehand at what page the book was open. He had not forgotten that this reading of the Gospel had been selected by Mosco himself as his part in the coronation-ceremony, and he recalled the archpastor's peculiar smile at the time of his choosing the office. Was the mystery about to be solved?
Turning his eyes upon the opened volume, Mosco began to read. The lection obtained by thissors sacraproved to be the opening chapter of the Fourth Gospel.
With a curious anticipatory interest the assembly listened to the reading, prepared to catch at any verse which might be twisted into some allusion to the princess and her reign.
Mosco, in a magnificent bass voice and with majestic delivery, read through five verses. Then, making a momentary pause, he resumed, changing his tone to one of peculiar emphasis,—
"'There was a man sent from God whose name was John—'"
"And there he is!" cried a voice that rang like aclarion all over the cathedral, the voice of Feodor Orloff; "there he is! John, Duke of Bora. People of Czernova, listen to the voice of God."
Scarcely had the words been spoken when the Duke of Bora was seen emerging from the northern transept.
The sudden utterance of Count Orloff, combined with the simultaneous appearance of the Duke of Bora, caused an electric thrill to pervade the cathedral.
The holy Gospels, appealed to by a method approved by both factions alike, seemed to have given a mandate in favor of the duke, to the confusion of the adherents of the princess. The occupants of the northern aisle, as well as of the northern transept, gave instant proof of the side on which their sympathies lay. They rose to their feet as one man, and ignoring the sacred character of the place, gave vent to tumultuous cries.
"The holy oracles are on our side!"
"They bid us elect a man, and not a woman!"
"A John, and not a Natalie!"
"One sent from God, and not from Rome!"
"Bora, Bora! Give us Bora! The duke is our ruler!"
Their voices immediately became lost in the overwhelming shouts of the Poles, who likewise rose to their feet, and replied by counter-cries.
"The princess! the princess! We will have none but Natalie Lilieska!" There was not a shadow of doubt in Zabern's mind that the assembling of the Muscovites in the northern transept, the apt lection of Mosco, the utterance of Orloff, and the sudden appearing of the duke were all parts of a preconcerted arrangement.
"Holy hireling of the duke!" he said, grinding his teeth and addressing Mosco, "you have done your work.Stand from the choir, or by heaven!" he continued, half unsheathing his sabre, "I'll add a martyr to the Russian calendar."
"Thou hast the wisdom of the serpent, marshal, though scarcely the innocence of the dove," sneered the archpastor, who had many an old score to settle with Zabern. "We will see if thy wit can get the better of this situation. No Catholic ruler in Czernova!"
And directing a glance of scarcely disguised hatred towards the princess, he withdrew from the choir and took his station among the Muscovites.
Amid wild excitement the Duke of Bora, his face somewhat pale, continued to advance till he reached the open space fronting the choir, where he stood visible to all in the cathedral.
His outward appearance was sufficiently indicative of the power upon which he relied for support, for he was clad in the grand uniform of a marshal of the Seminovski Guards, and carried on his breast the cross of Saint Andrew, the blue riband of Russia.
At his approach the princess rose from her seat. The two factions perceiving her action, and curious to learn what she would say, ceased their raging.
"Marshal Zabern," cried Barbara in a voice that sounded like music after the raucous clamor of the previous few moments: "I call upon you to re-arrest that escaped prisoner, and to conduct him to the Citadel."
"You threaten me with imprisonment?" exclaimed Bora with a stern air. "It is mine to threaten, and yours to fear. People of Czernova," he continued, turning from the choir to address the assembly, "hear a revelation, strange yet true. She who sits there has no right to the crown, inasmuch as she is not Natalie Lilieska, but an impostor bearing a marvellous resemblance to that princess. The true Natalie died in Dalmatia more than two years ago."
The duke's words destroyed Zabern's lingering hope that Ravenna's letter might have miscarried, for how had Bora become possessed of his present knowledge, except through the medium of the cardinal's dove?
"Marshal Zabern," continued the duke, pointing to Barbara, "I call upon you to arrest an impostor who usurps my throne."
"And you may call," replied Zabern.
The duke's statement drew derisive laughter from the Poles; it was too absurd for belief, a malicious invention of a disappointed suitor. At this point Polonaski the Justiciary, who occupied a seat directly fronting the choir, arose and addressed the princess.
"Lady," he began, and showing by that word that he, too, like Mosco, had taken the side of her enemies, "lady, you have heard the duke's accusation. Let this assembly learn from you whether the charge be true."
It was hard for a youthful and spirited princess to be catechised by a minister who had suddenly turned against her.
"Your Highness, do not answer the traitorous gray-beard," said Zabern.
For a moment only did Barbara hesitate.
"It is true that I am not Natalie Lilieska."
An earthquake rocking the cathedral-pavement could not have dismayed the Poles more than had this startling acknowledgment. True it must be, since she herself admitted the impeachment,—an impeachment fatal to her own interests. And if she must cease to be princess, what would become of them under the rule of Bora?
The Muscovites, themselves bewildered with the unforeseen turn taken by events, sat as silent as the Poles.
"Consider well what you say," observed Polonaski with a slight smile of triumph. "You dethrone yourself by that statement."
"Not so," replied Barbara. "So long as I should havelived, the Princess Natalie could not have reigned; inasmuch as I am her elder sister Barbara, and therefore lawfully entitled to the throne."
The Poles raised a shout of applause; though somewhat dubious as to the truth of Barbara's statement, they were prepared to welcome it, as well as any other device which might deliver them from the power of the duke.
"Barbara Lilieska," returned the Justiciary, "is a person of whose existence Czernova has hitherto been ignorant. Princess Stephanie, wife of the late Thaddeus, had but one daughter, Natalie."
"I am the daughter of an earlier marriage."
"You bring strange tidings to our ears. It was never known in Czernova that Prince Thaddeus was twice wedded. Have you proof of this former marriage?"
"Yes," replied Barbara, inspired by a sudden thought, "I will cite yourself, Polonaski, as a witness, for at the time of my father's demise you were present with other ministers in the death-chamber. You can testify that Prince Thaddeus handed the diadem to me with the words: 'To you, my daughter lawfully born, do I bequeath this crown, to be held for the weal of Czernova.' Do you mark the words 'lawfully born'? Ill would my sire merit his title of 'The Good' if he died in the utterance of a lie. And what I have received, that will I keep."
The thunders of Polish applause in no way disconcerted the calm and forensic Polonaski.
"The word of the dying prince is not legal proof," he answered. "And, moreover, lady, you yourself, in concealing your own identity and in taking the name of another, have given clear evidence of disbelief in the claim that you now put forward."
"People of Czernova," said the duke, raising his voice, and again addressing the assembly, "I affirm that she who calls herself Barbara Lilieska was not born in lawful wedlock, but is a natural daughter of the late PrinceThaddeus, and as such is debarred from the succession. In the days of old," he continued, "when Czernova was a palatinate, the palatine at his investiture, was always prepared, either in person or by deputy, to defend his rights with the sword, nor was the rite discontinued when the palatines became princes and the investiture a coronation. I invoke the ancient law of the land and claim the ordeal of battle. I demand that the princess, so-called, shall meet me by deputy in single combat. There is my gage," he added, flinging his leathern gauntlet upon the flagstone of the choir. "Let the sword decide between us."
A triumphant laugh arose from the Muscovites. Where was the champion who would face the duke's deadly blade? Not even Zabern durst pick up that glove. Willingly would he have sacrificed his life in the cause of the princess, but death in this case would mean her deposition.
"The stars in their courses fight against Czernova," muttered Zabern, clenching his one and only hand. "Long ago, foreseeing this challenge would be given, I provided, as I thought, for the event. And now we must decline the combat, for our swordsman," he added in despair, "our swordsman is absent."
"It is now eleven," remarked Polonaski. The cathedral clock was chiming as he spoke. "The princess must appoint her champion within an hour from the giving of the challenge, the duel itself to take place upon the same day as the challenge. So runs the statute."
The mild and pacific Radzivil had beheld with indignation the casting down of the duke's glove.
"What a return to barbarism is this," he cried, addressing the Justiciary, "to make the crown of Czernova dependent upon the result of a duel! The statute which you cite is five hundred years old. It is obsolete, quite obsolete."
"By your favor," replied Polonaski, cool and judicial as ever, "permit me, as the highest legal authority in Czernova, to affirm that as that law is still on the statute-book it is therefore valid and of good effect."
"Your contention is null and void," said Zabern, "inasmuch as the Diet has passed a law against duelling."
"Against ordinary duelling—true; but the recent statute contains no clause against the coronation-combat, which, therefore, stands as part of the law of the land."
"The ex-Justiciary," said Barbara, deposing him from his office by a word, even as he had deposed her by a word, "the ex-Justiciary, as the interpreter of the law, should know that a traitor has no legal standing. The duke has shown himself a traitor to the state, and is therefore not in a position to impugn his sovereign."
"No court of justice has yet proved him to be a traitor," replied the inflexible Polonaski. "We cannot accept the word of even the lawful sovereign as the voice of the law, still less the word of an usurper."
"An usurper and a harlot's daughter," cried the voice of Orloff from amid the Muscovite ranks.
At this a deep murmur of indignation ran through the Polish part of the assembly.
"Men of Czernova," cried a woman's voice, "do you sit thus inactive, letting your princess be opposed and insulted by the Czar's hirelings? Where is the ancient spirit of the Poles fled? Would our forefathers have won this banner if they had shown the timidity that you now show?"
All eyes turned towards the speaker, who was none other than Katina Ludovska. Standing high upon a seat in the centre of the nave, she was plainly visible to all in the cathedral. While speaking she shook out the silken folds of the standard she had carried in the procession, and with her drawn sword pointed to the stamp of the bloody hand.
Her action was well understood by the Poles. What their fathers had done they could do. Her gesture was a tacit incentive to rise, to give battle to the Muscovites, and to sweep them from the cathedral. In silver helm and corselet Katina stood aloft, looking like some fair Amazon of ancient days. With eyes starry with patriotic fire, she waved the standard, and began to sing in a firm, sweet voice that penetrated to the most distant part of the cathedral,—
"Boja ro-dzica dziewicaBojiem wslavisna Marya—"
"Boja ro-dzica dziewica
Bojiem wslavisna Marya—"
A wave of emotion thrilled the assembly as these words fell upon their ears.
"The old Polish battle-hymn!" muttered Zabern. "By God, there'll be slaughter now."
It was indeed the famous hymn of Saint Adalbert, the anthem accustomed to be sung in old time by the Poles when moving forward to battle, the pæan that has struck terror to the heart of Muscovite, Tartar, and Turk in those brave days when Poland was the bulwark of Christendom against the barbarism of the East.
The memory of their past glories fired the blood of every patriot in the cathedral to an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy. Moved by a simultaneous impulse, the whole body of Poles sprang to their feet, drew their swords, and began to join in the refrain; and Katina's voice was immediately drowned in one grand outpouring.
The sparkle of a thousand sword-blades waving in the iridescent light cast by richly stained glass, the coloring and splendor of dresses and jewels, the magnificent roll of voices beneath the lofty Gothic arches, the notes of the organ pealing high above the chant—for the organist, catching the fire of patriotism, was pressing the keys of his instrument as he had never pressed them before—were sights and sounds that baffle description. Strongmen sang with tears in their eyes, and women fainted with emotion.
Now, as previously stated, the Muscovites occupied the northern aisle and its adjacent transept, a narrow space only separating them from the Poles in the nave. Across this division the two factions glared fiercely at each other; threats were uttered; challenges interchanged; and when the Muscovites in turn began to raise the Russian National Anthem the berserker spirit of the Poles broke forth.
"Down with the Muscovites!"
"Sweep them from the cathedral!"
"The princess forever!"
"No. Duke of Bora!"
Katina herself, skilled in the use of the sword, was the first in the fray, the standard still held in her hand.
"Take to your guard, knouter of women!" she cried, singling out her old enemy, the ex-governor of Orenburg.
Her example found ready imitators, and in a moment more the clash of steel went ringing down the northern aisle.
Half-a-dozen Muscovites, sword in hand, sprang forward, and facing outwards, formed a protecting circle around the person of the duke, who, for his part, stood with folded arms, a passive and silent spectator of the wild work that was taking place.
Zabern, desirous of defending Katina, drew his sabre and endeavored to force his way through the two opposing lines to the place where the red-handed banner waved like a rallying beacon above the flashing points of steel.
Barbara rose to her feet and gazed with grief upon a scene, the like of which, though rarely witnessed in modern times within the hallowed interior of a cathedral, was familiar enough in the old Byzantine days when the election of a bishop had often to be decided by an appeal to arms.
She was in the act of bidding Radzivil summon the military to part the combatants, when a sudden and striking apparition rendered the command unnecessary.
"Down with your arms!"
The voice in which these words were uttered rose like thunder above themêlée, compelling even the two long lines of combatants to pause and turn their eyes towards the speaker. On the edge of the choir, and with hand uplifted, stood a stately figure clothed in a brilliant and imposing uniform, a figure half a head taller at least than the usual height of men, and standing as he did upon the elevated pavement of the choir, his stature seemed more than human.
Though few in the cathedral had ever before seen this personage, yet all recognized in a moment the superb brow, the severe, haughty features, the dark eyes always melancholy, even when the mouth smiled.
"The devil himself at last!" murmured Zabern, a grim joy stealing over his face. "Now have the saints delivered him as a hostage into our hands!"
The stranger's form seemed really to dilate, as, with the voice of one born to command, he again cried,—
"Down with your arms!"
Furious conspirators, advancing to slay, had once been awed and checked by that lofty voice, that majestic presence, which did not fail now to produce a remarkable effect.
"The Czar! the Czar!" cried the Poles.
"The little father! the little father!" cried the Muscovites.
The fighting ceased. The assailants on each side fell back. Slowly the tumult died away in utter silence. The wounded repressed their groans; for wounded there were; many, too, brief as had been the combat; and one man lay dead upon the pavement, slain by the hand of a woman.
The Czar, for it was in truth the mighty Nicholas, turned his face slowly round upon all sides. The fiercest of the Poles felt compelled to sheathe his blade and to resume his seat as that terrible eye fell upon him. Who durst continue to assail a Muscovite with the lord of the Muscovites looking on, even though that lord were without a single guard?
It was somewhat mortifying to Barbara's pride that the cessation of the strife should have been caused by the authority of the Czar rather than by her own, since it seemed to place him upon a higher plane than herself. Clearly he had prevented a massacre of her Muscovite subjects, and thus far thanks were due to him. But Barbara was in no mood to offer courtesies to one who had always shown himself a bitter enemy. The very authority now assumed by him was an infringement of her own, and put her instantly upon her mettle.
Among the combatants there was one at least who retained an undaunted mien, namely, Katina. She advanced towards the choir, wiping her reddened blade upon the silken standard, which during the fray had become detached from the staff.
At the edge of the choir Katina knelt.
"Seek not pardon of me," exclaimed the Czar loftily, mistaking her purpose. "You who commenced the fray, you who have slain one of my own subjects!"
"The stars shall fall from heaven ere Katina Ludovska craves pardon of Nicholas Paulovitch," scornfully replied the Polish maiden, ever mindful of the fact that the warrant condemning her to receive the knout was signed with this same name, Nicholas Paulovitch. "Your Highness," she continued, still on her knees, and addressing Barbara, "if through zeal I have wrought amiss in slaying one who traduced the fair name of my princess, of you alone I crave pardon."
"If the name of him whom you have slain be FeodorOrloff," said Barbara, "then have you done a good deed, and you need ask pardon of none."
A Russian governor slain in the very presence of the Czar, and the princess justifying the deed! Barbara's ministers sat completely dumfounded by her boldness. There were two sovereigns in the choir, each contending for the mastery; which would prevail?
Turning to the emperor with an air of dignity and self-possession, Barbara said,—
"Let the Czar explain by what right he has set free a traitor imprisoned by my authority."
Such language as this was new to the autocrat, who is credited with the saying, "Let there be no will in Russia but that of the Czar." He glanced with surprise, not unmixed with admiration, at the young girl who faced him so spiritedly.
"What gives you such boldness in the presence of the Czar?"
"The Charter of your ancestress Catherine."
"Catherine, 'tis true, granted to the palatines of Czernova the title of princes, but conferred no independence upon them. The story of the Charter is a myth."
"Your Majesty may see upon the altar here the identical document itself, signed by the hand of the empress."
"That," replied Nicholas, scarcely deigning to turn his eyes in the direction indicated, "that document is a forgery, as Marshal Zabern can prove."
"I plainly see that a little bird has been whispering to him," murmured Zabern to himself.
A scornful repudiation trembled upon Barbara's lips, but it died away when she beheld Zabern's grave look.
"Marshal, is not that the original Charter of Catherine?"
There was something so wistful and pathetic in her expression—an expression which plainly said, "Let meknow the worst,"—that Zabern felt he could no longer deceive her.
"It is a faithful transcript, so please your Highness."
Barbara understood the significant reply. Zabern, in describing to her the plot formed by Bora and Orloff for the destruction of the Charter, had represented the scheme as resulting in failure. She now perceived that from pity the marshal had kept the terrible truth from her, endeavoring to repair Czernova's loss by means of a forged document. Wrong of him, doubtless, but the fault lay more with those whose wickedness had compelled him to resort to such a policy.
Outwardly Barbara was as firm and as brave as ever, but inwardly she felt that her throne was going, nay, had gone from her. And bitter indeed was it to see the crafty flourishing in their craftiness.
She beckoned Zabern to her side.
"So, marshal," she whispered sadly, but not reproachfully, "you have deceived me."
"With good intent, your Highness."
"Is forgery good?"
"Yes, in this case. Do you blame me, princess, for seeking to maintain the liberties of Czernova?"
"Ill would it become me to blame you, Zabern, especially at such time as this."
She turned from him to listen to the Czar, who seemed to be addressing herself and the assembly in common.
"The marshal," he said, "dare not uphold the genuineness of the document upon the altar. It is now manifest that Czernova can show no valid title to the autonomy it has so long exercised. It is an integral part of the Russian dominion, and to-day we resume our usurped authority. As sovereign-lord of this principality we declare the claim of the present occupant of the throne to be null and void."
"On what ground?" inquired Radzivil.
"On the ground alleged by the duke—illicit birth."
Zabern marked Barbara's look of humiliation, and thought it not amiss to give the emperorquid pro quo.
"A difficult matter this proving of one's legitimacy," he observed, turning to the assembly as if taking them into his confidence. "I have even known emperors to be in doubt as to the true name of their grandfathers."
This allusion to the frailties of Catherine drew a terrible look from the Czar. He even laid hand upon his sword; but, checking his wrath, he resumed his speech to the assembly.
"And though in the strict view of the law the Duke of Bora be the rightful ruler of this principality, yet we, as suzerain, in the exercise of our clemency will permit the princess so-called to retain her throne, provided she can produce a champion who shall overcome the duke in armed combat."
"Then the duke's challenge meets with your Majesty's approval?" said Radzivil.
"As suzerain," replied the emperor, "it is my duty to uphold the usages and institutions of the principality; and the Justiciary—"
"Ex-Justiciary," corrected Barbara quietly.
"We will not quarrel as to that. It is enough that the highest legal authority here present has affirmed that the duke's action is in entire assonance with the Czernovese law."
The Czar did not add, as he might have added, that it was almost certain that the duke would gain the crown by this arrangement, which was the reason why he, the Autocrat, had become so suddenly favorable to constitutionalism. It would be more polite to place his kinsman Bora upon the throne under the guise of law, than to install him by force of arms. Europe, then, could not so easily raise a protest.
"If," said Barbara, addressing the emperor, "if duellingbe so agreeable to your Majesty, on what ground do you now justify your former demand for the extradition of the duke?"
Nicholas, little accustomed to be catechised or to give reasons for his conduct, frowned and was silent.
Zabern laughed.
"Princess, you demand too much in requiring a Czar to be logical."
"And how," asked Radzivil of the emperor, "how if we should ignore the duke's claim and should proceed with the coronation of the princess?"
The Czar's eyes flashed at this defiance of his authority.
"If you will not uphold your own laws, there is a power upon the frontier that shall compel you to do so."
Ill-starred Barbara! Publicly stigmatized as illegitimate; her principality void of its boasted Charter; her dream of a Polish empire vanished; her own throne of Czernova forfeited to the duke, inasmuch as it meant death to any one who should meet him in combat. And all this occurring in the space of one brief hour upon the day which she had anticipated as the most splendid of her life!
Was this to be the end of her triumphal progress through the shouting crowds of her capital—doomed amid the mocking laughter of the Muscovites to quit the cathedral a discrowned princess, attended by a melancholy train of fallen ministers?
"I am—IAMprincess!" she murmured between her set teeth. "They shall not drive me from the throne."
But what booted it to resist? There, a few paces off, and sternly opposed to her, was the master of many legions, the lord of one-seventh of the globe, who had but to give the signal, and one hundred thousand troops would come marching across the border to do his will. She might have Right on her side, but he had Might, andbitterly did she realize the saying of the old Norse god: "Force rules the world; has ruled it; shall rule it."
Zabern, however, fertile in expedients, was not yet reduced to a state of despair. He had formed the plan of seizing the Czar as a prisoner of war, and of making his release conditional upon the cession of autonomy to Czernova. If Barbara should refuse to sanction this desperate scheme, well then he, Zabern, would act without her, finding a higher authority in the interests of the Czernovese. Much as he revered the princess, if that princess should refuse to be true to herself, it would behove him to put the state before the individual.
He was on the point of communicating his design to Barbara when Polonaski rose to speak.
"The hour is drawing to a close. She who calls herself princess has but five minutes left in which to appoint her champion."
At a sign from the Czar the Duke of Bora stepped forward to renew his challenge.
"Barbara Lilieska," he said amid a solemn hush, "I call upon you either to resign the crown you have usurped, or to defend it at the sword's point. Appoint your champion. My desire is for a man that we may fight together."
"Have, then, your desire!" cried a firm, clear voice.
All eyes were immediately turned towards the speaker who had just entered the cathedral by the western porch,—a young man with face bronzed as if by eastern suns, his handsome, athletic figure arrayed in a dark-blue uniform with silver facings.
"Paul Woodville, by all that's holy!" cried Zabern in an ecstacy of delight.
"The man who defeated me at Tajapore," murmured the Czar darkly.
Amid a scene of wild excitement Paul moved towards the choir, his long cloak hanging gracefully from hisshoulders, his sabre clanking heavily upon the cathedral pavement.
Barbara, her heart beating wildly, her lips parted in a smile, half of pride, half of fear, watched him, knowing for what purpose he was advancing.
Paul reached the edge of the choir, and picking up the duke's gauntlet, which had lain untouched for an hour, he tossed it disdainfully against its owner's face.
"Duke of Bora, I will do battle with you to the death on behalf of the princess."
"One moment, young sir," said Polonaski. "You cannot nominate yourself. The appointment rests with the lady. Do you accept this man as your champion?" he added, turning to Barbara.
"Oh, no, no!" cried Barbara. "This must not be."
A minute previously she had been longing to triumph over the Czar; now the princess was lost in the woman. She would rather resign her throne than put Paul's life to such terrible hazard.
The anguish pictured on her face, her clasped hands, her form bent forward, attested the state of her feelings towards the handsome young Englishman. There was not one person in the cathedral ignorant of the cause of her emotion. Her love for Paul, and the reason of his going away, were matters well known to all the Czernovese. His sudden return at this crisis imparted an additional interest to a tableau already thrilling.
"By heaven, your Highness must accept him," whispered Zabern in her ear. "I have tested his swordsmanship in thesalle d'armeswith a view to this very event, and I know that the duke has no chance against him."
Barbara remained silent. A struggle was taking place in her mind. The high spirit that had sustained her during the terrible strain of the last twenty-four hours was beginning to give way. Her crown had never brought her anything but sorrow. Why not resign it, and departwith Paul to his own Kentish home, that home which he had so often described to her,—a fair castellated hall shaded with beech-trees beside a cool lake! Far happier the life of an English lady than that of a princess ruling over a semi-barbarous people.
Polonaski had marked Zabern's triumphant smile at the appearance of Paul, and that smile made him somewhat uneasy, implying as it did a firm belief in Paul's ability to overcome the duke.
"Was not Captain Woodville banished from Czernova?" he asked; "because if so he has no right to be on Czernovese ground."
"Captain Woodville retired from Czernova of his own free will," replied Zabern. "The cabinet signed no decree of banishment against him."
Barbara was still wavering in mind.
"Stick to your throne," growled Zabern.
"To hold it as a vassal of the Czar!" she murmured faintly.
"Fear not. We'll find a way of defeating his claim of suzerainty. What! will you desert the faithful Poles who have so long stood by you? Will your Highness resign your throne to the duke, a traitor and assassin, when you have the opportunity of giving him his final quietus? Who slew Trevisa? Who burnt the Charter? Who has brought the Russian army within our borders? Who but the duke? And now will you let him triumph? Give the word for the duel. Princess, I know, Iknow," he added emphatically, "that Captain Woodville will come off victorious."
At this point the Czar spoke.
"The princess so-called must either appoint a champion or prepare to abdicate."
Despair seized the Poles at the thought of being ruled by Bora,—Bora, who in his cups had been heard to declare that when he should come to power, he would harnessthe Polish nobles to the yoke, and compel them to plough his fields.
Loud murmurs arose at Barbara's reluctance to accept Paul as her champion.
"Appoint him, your Highness, appoint him," was the cry.
"Let Captain Woodville slay the duke, and receive the hand of the princess as his reward," cried Zabern. "Have I not said?" he added, addressing the assembly.
The cathedral rang with a shout of applause, a shout that doomed the princely marriage statute to the limbo of obsolete things. Zabern had voiced the sentiments of the Poles. Better an untitled Englishman than Bora.
At that moment the first stroke of twelve chimed from the cathedral clock. Barbara's decision, if given after the hour, would be too late. To his dismay Zabern saw that she was on the point of swooning.
"The word, princess, the word!" he cried, almost savagely.
"Barbara, say the word," pleaded Paul gently.
She looked at him, and was unable to resist the wistful, earnest appeal of his eyes.
"I accept—Captain Woodville—as—my—my champion," she gasped. "Oh! what have I done?" she added in the next moment. And as the twelfth stroke of the clock died away, she swayed helplessly forward and sank unconscious into Paul's arms. He surrendered her light form to the care of her attendant ladies, who immediately bore her away from the choir to the sacristy which had served as her robing-room.
"Duke of Bora," cried Zabern, with an exultant smile, "your last hour has come!"
Those who had come to the cathedral in the expectation of witnessing an interesting ceremony were beginning to find that the reality far surpassed the anticipation.
A series of dramatic episodes had occurred in quick succession, but the climax of all was now reached when it became known that the throne of Czernova was to be put to the hazard of a duel, and a duel that was to ensue immediately within the walls of the cathedral itself, an arrangement due to the initiative of Zabern; for, as according to the statute the combat must take place that same day, he had proposed that it should be fought at once upon the open pavement fronting the choir.
"A duel within a cathedral!" exclaimed Radzivil in amazement.
"Why not?" asked Zabern coolly.
"This is a consecrated place. The wilful shedding of blood here is forbidden by the Church."
"Well, let's take the opinion of the Church as expressed in the person of Faustus."
Now, sad to relate, that mitred abbot dearly loved to witness a good fight, for he had been a soldier ere adopting the monastic profession, and the old Adam was still strong within him.
"This cathedral is holy ground," he began.
"Presumably so," replied Zabern.
"And to maintain the princess's throne and the Latin faith is a holy deed."
"Without doubt."
"Then let the holy deed take place on holy ground."
"My view of the matter."
"But if the shedding of blood should profane a church—"
"As the timid allege."
"Then is the place already profaned by the blood of Orloff."
"True."
"Therefore this being now common ground the duel can take place without occasion of profanation."
"Faustus, thou reasonest well. Gentlemen, we have heard the voice of the Church.Fiat voluntas ecclesiæ.Let the combat take place here, and now."
"Good!" commented Paul, who had listened in silence to this dialogue. "It cannot come too soon."
A remark echoed by the ferocious Bora, confident in his ability to overcome the other.
Paul now found his hands grasped by those of admiring ministers, all of whom were anxious that he should forget how near they had come to banishing him by public edict.
In the midst of their congratulations Paul was approached by a lady-in-waiting, who brought word that the princess desired to speak with him ere the duel should begin.
"Go to your dalliance," sneered Bora, who had overheard the message. "It will be your last."
"If your grace will take counsel of an enemy," replied Paul, "you will seek the ministration of a priest, for you never needed it more."
There was something in Paul's quiet and confident manner, something far removed from boasting, that sent a momentary uneasiness to the hearts of both Bora and of his imperial patron, the Czar.
Paul followed his conductress to the sacristy, where hefound Barbara attended by her ladies, who had divested her of her heavy coronation robes. The pure white of her silk dress was not whiter than her face at that moment.
At a sign from the princess the attendants withdrew, leaving her alone with Paul.
"What a pity," murmured one, "if so handsome a hero should die!"
Barbara rose to her feet, but so great was her emotion that she would have fallen, had not Paul caught her in his arms, where she reclined, clinging convulsively to him.
"Oh! Paul, Paul," she murmured, and for a long time she could do no more than repeat his name.
The sweetness and the pain at her heart! Was this a meeting or a parting? Her throne, her power, her wealth, her triumphs in the diplomacy and the Diet were all as nothing in comparison with her love of Paul. He was her dearest possession, and yet—and yet—this clasp of his arms might be the last! Within an hour his corpse might be carried out of the cathedral, and the voice of the Czar would proclaim her downfall, and the accession of Bora. And what would life be without Paul?
"Do not weep, Barbara," he cried, tenderly stroking her dark hair. "This day shall prove the brightest of your life."
But Barbara failed to see how this could be. To her it would ever remain as the most wretched, for even if she should triumph over Czar and duke, that would not remove the reproach of illegitimacy publicly cast in her teeth. She shivered at the recollection. Of all the incidents which had happened that day, this—the imputed stain on her birth—had most wounded her pride. Would she ever be able to disprove the charge? But it was not the time to be thinking of this now.
"Oh! Paul," she murmured, "it is selfish, it is wrong of me to hazard your life in this barbarous fashion."
"It is too late to plead now," he answered gravely. "Ihave publicly accepted the honor—for an honor it is—of acting as the princess's champion, and not even Barbara herself shall dissuade me to withdraw."
"But are you certain, quite certain, that you will be victorious?"
"Try me," said Paul grimly.
"How can I let you do this?" she cried in an outburst of anguish. "I will resign my crown. We will go away together to some other land where happiness may be found. Say 'yes' to this. Oh, Paul, don't—don'tfight. If you should fall—"
"No fear of that, since your throne depends upon the issue."
"My throne!" repeated Barbara bitterly. "What pleasure can it give me now? The Czar has learned that our Charter is no more. He claims Czernova as part of his empire. If I should continue to rule I must rule merely as his vassal. Consider the humiliations to which I shall be subjected. Is it worth while risking your life in order to preserve for me a gilded mockery of power?"
How could Paul smile at the prospect presented by her words? Yet he did, pleasantly and tenderly.
"Sweet princess!" he said, "for princess you are, and princess you shall remain, take courage." He turned her beautiful face upward to his own, and gazed into the depth of her dark eyes, on whose silken lashes the tear-drops glittered. "During my absence I have worked for the good of Czernova. I have splendid tidings for you. Fear no more the machinations of Russia. From this day forth you are firmly seated upon the throne."
The sudden and unaccountable joy that filled Barbara's heart at that moment almost effaced the thought of the coming duel.
"Oh, Paul, what—what do you mean?"
"That I have accomplished my mission. But ere explaining let me first dispose of the duke; otherwise whenthe great news which is now on its way reaches Slavowitz, he may seek to escape in the train of the Czar, which must not be, for Trevisa's death calls for atonement."
Though full of wonder, Barbara succeeded in repressing her curiosity, and said,—
"Paul, you do not wish me to be a witness of this duel? I mean," she added timidly, "if you think that—that—"
"That I shall fight with better success if you are looking on? No, Barbara, it is no sight for your gentle eyes. Remain here till it is over. And do not fear for me," he continued, kissing her tearful face, "I am more than a match for the duke. From boyhood upward to excel in sword-play has been my ambition. Rarely have I let a day pass without exercise. I can see now that Providence has been training my arm for this very event."
His words inspired Barbara with a momentary confidence.
"You will succeed, Paul. Heaven will help you, for you fight in a righteous cause. Oh, are you going? So soon? Why, we have but just met. Not yet—not yet. A minute longer—one more kiss—lest—lest—it should be—the last—O Paul—don't go—no—no—"
He kissed her tenderly, gently removed her clinging arms, and quitted the sacristy.
The Duke of Bora, who was sitting beside his great kinsman, the Czar, scowled as Paul made his appearance in the choir. The dullest imagination could picture the tender interview that had taken place in the sacristy. All knew that Paul had come to the combat with Barbara's kiss dewy on his lips.
"But for yon fellow," muttered Bora, "I might now be the consort of the princess."
"The fair lady loves power," replied the emperor. "She may yet consent when she sees the crown on your brow. See, the herald summons you. Now, Bora, playthe man, and you are prince by the law of Czernova itself. All Europe will be unable to dispute the legality of your title."
The two duellists did not immediately take to the sword and engage. The coronation-rubric prescribed certain formalities—relics of a mediæval usage—in connection with the championing of the sovereign; and these a herald, dressed in the quaint antique costume of his office, proceeded to carry out.
"Let the champions come forward."
Paul, with a smile serene and high, stepped to the appointed place, namely, the space fronting the choir. Sand had been sprinkled upon the pavement to absorb the blood that might be shed, and to prevent the combatants' feet from slipping.
Bora with a scowling brow faced his opponent.
"Do you, Paul Cressingham Woodville, affirm that she who calls herself Barbara Lilieska is the true and lawful ruler of this principality of Czernova?"
"I do."
"And do you, John Lilieski, affirm that you yourself are the true and lawful ruler of this principality of Czernova?"
"I do."
"And to prove your respective contentions, are you each willing to submit to the ordeal of battle?"
The champions signified their assent.
The herald then proceeded to explain the conditions that were to regulate the combat. Swords of a certain length were to be the weapons used. From beginning to end the duel was to be continuous without any interval for rest or refreshment. Each was to fight till his opponent should be destroyed, for quarter was neither to be given nor accepted, and though the life-blood were being drained from the combatants the wounds were not to be stanched.
By a solemn oath repeated after the herald, each champion bound himself to observe these regulations. Hence it was certain that one, possibly both, would not leave the cathedral alive, a fact which imparted a terrible interest to the coming combat.
"No quarter! that's a good rule," remarked Zabern to Katina, who sat beside him. "The craven duke would be begging for his life, and we want no more Boras in Czernova."
"The champions will now take their position for the combat," cried the herald.
The duellist when hard pressed is apt to give way before his opponent. In the present case, however, advance or retreat, save within very narrow limits, was rendered impossible.
Fixed in the stone flooring was a ring of brass designed for raising a slab that covered a stairway leading to a crypt below. The right ankle of each combatant was attached to this same ring by a strong cord six feet in length, thus confining their movements within a circle of four yards in diameter.
These preparations raised the interest of the spectators to a high pitch. A dreadful sensation thrilled the ladies present as they watched the champions during the process of cording; the men, more cool and critical, strove to predict the victor from the physique presented by each of the opponents.
Judged thus, the advantage seemed to be on the side of the duke, whose frame was powerful and massive; Paul was not equal in stature to his antagonist, was of more slender build, and any superiority derivable from his greater activity was somewhat nullified by the restraining cord.
The circumstances attending this combat contributed to render it unique in the annals of Czernovese duelling.
The one champion, Bora, stimulated by the presence ofhis imperial patron, the mighty Czar, fought to gain a crown; the other, Paul, for the hand of a fair princess. There was a coloring of romance about the affair strongly suggestive of the days of chivalry, and this was enhanced by the quaint character of the ritual employed.
Each of the Czernovese factions was confident of the success of its champion. The Muscovites boasted of the duke's thirty duels, from all of which he had emerged victorious without taking a wound. The Poles had no such record to show on behalf of their champion; his brilliant feat in thesalle d'armeswas unknown to them, but they had marked Zabern while Paul was lifting the duke's glove, and they felt that the marshal must have had good cause for the grim joy that had appeared on his face. Moreover, Paul's gallant defence of Tajapore was still fresh in their minds; his triumph over the Czar's policy in the East was an augury of a similar triumph in the West, and contributed to give a piquant zest to the coming duel. At any rate, his cold, flashing eye, compressed lips and resolute mien showed that he was a dangerous opponent.
As soon as Paul had removed his coat and vest the herald placed his hand beneath his shirt.
"To ascertain whether you wear an under-tunic of mail," he explained in answer to Paul's look of surprise.
"Do you deem me a person of so little honor?"
"This scrutiny is so enjoined by the rubric," remarked the herald, as he subjected Bora to the same inspection.
The weapons next occupied the herald's attention.
The duke had come prepared for the contest, and hence his blade was of the length prescribed by the statute; Paul's sword fell short of this by two inches, and though he much preferred to fight with his own weapon, the herald would not permit him to do so.
"My blade is of the requisite length," said Zabern, "and I can warrant it tried steel. Take it; you willmake it historic. It has already shed the blood of a cardinal; why not that of a duke? There will be a sort of poetic justice in despatching the princess's two enemies with the same weapon."
"You seem very confident, marshal," sneered Bora.
"Very confident, your grace. You see there's no princess to intervene this time."
The herald having tested the length and flexibility of Zabern's sword returned it to the marshal, saying, as he did so,—
"Pierce your skin with the point."
Zabern instantly pricked the palm of his hand till the blood flowed, while the duke did the like with his own weapon.
The puzzled Paul looked inquiringly at Zabern, who explained that it was an old usage in Czernova, adopted as a precaution against poisoned blades.
The two combatants were now bidden to stand as far apart as the cords would permit, and each after kissing his blade held it vertically aloft, repeating after the herald the following oath,—
"Hear, O ye people, that I have this day neither eaten nor drunk aught, nor have I upon my person either charm or amulet, nor have I practised any enchantment or sorcery, whereby the law of Heaven may be abased, or the law of Satan be exalted. So help me God and His saints!"
Very absurd and mediæval, no doubt, but being a part of the ancient ritual its enunciation was required from each champion.
The news of the coming duel had been announced to the populace without, and their cries of excitement contrasted strangely with the deadly stillness that reigned within the interior of the fane.
Upon that part of the cathedral roof that overlooked the square, a group of soldiers could be seen standingabout a flag-staff, at the foot of which were two banners, one white, the other black. The eyes of all the people below were set upon this flag-staff, when it became known that the hoisting of the white standard would signify the triumph of the princess's champion, and the black standard his defeat.
The time for the great contest had now come, and the herald stepped backward a few paces.
"May Heaven defend the right! In the name of God—fight!"
As the blades clashed together the spectators drew a deep breath. The time occupied by the preliminaries, though in reality very brief, had seemed so long that the beginning of the duel came as an actual relief.
A shiver of expectancy ran around the cathedral. Five thousand pairs of eyes were riveted upon the choir, and upon naught else. The loveliest lady present might have sighed in vain for a single glance.
Abbot Faustus had sunk upon his knees by the altar, and was now telling his beads, but though his spiritual eyes might be directed towards heaven, his earthly vision was certainly fixed upon the two combatants, as Katina observed to Zabern.
"Well, he can cite Moses as a precedent," remarked the marshal, as he sat down to watch the fray. Loving a good fight, Zabern viewed the present spectacle with a real sense of enjoyment, untroubled by any doubt as to the result.
The Czar, with his strong liking for everything military, was likewise in his element. He sat, bent forward, resting the point of his sabre upon the pavement, and his hands upon the hilt, prepared to view the display of swordsmanship with the critical eye of amaître d'armes, as confident in the triumph of Bora as Zabern was in that of Paul.
The Duke of Bora, burning to distinguish himself inthe presence of the Czar, and apparently desirous of terminating the combat in the shortest space of time possible, made so furious an attack upon Paul that the latter could do no more than remain on the defensive. So weighty was the descent of Bora's blade that Paul's arm tingled at each shock; so swift his tierce that his sabre-point was often swept aside when within an inch only of Paul's breast. In truth the eye could scarcely follow the movement of the blades, which in their rapidity resembled flashes of light, rather than pieces of steel wielded by human hands.
The duke pressed his adversary yet harder, compelling him to recede inch by inch to the end of his tether, a retrogression which, added to the fact that Paul did not return the cut and thrust of his opponent, occasioned grave misgiving in the minds of the Polish spectators.
"Our champion has degenerated since the day he surprised us in thesalle d'armes," murmured the premier in alarm.
"Bah! my good Radzivil," returned Zabern confidently, "cannot you see that he is letting the duke exhaust himself? Bora is rash in thus pouring out his strength like water. This is too violent to last long. Ah! said I not so? First blood to us!"
The duke had failed to preserve his guard, and as a result Paul's weapon had penetrated his side to the depth of a quarter of an inch, a feat performed with such quickness that though all were watching, few perceived it.
"The duke is wounded."
"He is not."
Doubt vanished with the appearance on Bora's white shirt of a small red disk that began slowly to expand.
Zabern smiled grimly at the bewilderment of the duke, whose air resembled that of a bull in the Spanish arena when first pierced by the dart of the banderillero—the air of amazement as to how the thing could have happened,mingled with incredulity that any one should have ventured to play such a trick upon him.
This was the first wound ever received by him in his character as duellist, and the blow thus given to his prestige stung the duke far more than the mere physical pain caused by the stab. Its occurrence, however, at this stage was timely, for it served to check his fiery conceit and to teach him caution; it behoved him to guard as well as to assail.
Paul's vigilance in detecting an error on his adversary's part raised the spirit of the Poles to a high degree, while the feeling of the Muscovites underwent a corresponding depression.
"Good for the Englishman," cried a Pole.
"He is the duke's match," exclaimed a second.
The combat being now waged with more caution on the part of the duke, there ensued a really brilliant display of swordsmanship, which, interesting to the civilians, was far more so to the military officers present, from whom came subdued murmurs of admiration.
"Humph!" said Zabern, conscious that the duke was now in his best form. "The great Napoleon, with whom I once dined, made remark to me, 'Scratch a Russ, and you will find a Tartar.' In the present instance, however, the scratch seems to have made our Russ more cool."
The Czar, who had overheard these words, so far permitted his curiosity to overcome his dislike of Zabern as to ask coldly,—
"Where did you dine with Napoleon?"
"Beneath the roof of the Kremlin, sire," replied Zabern, with an ironical salute.
The emperor repressed his wrath, and turned again to view the strife.
Every movement of the blades was watched in fear and trembling by the Polish spectators, who felt that it was a fight betwixt liberty and despotism; a mortal thrust onthe part of the duke would leave them but a shadow of that freedom which they had enjoyed under therégimeof the princess.
Many of the ladies present, unable to endure the sight, averted their eyes, and then, impelled by a dreadful curiosity, turned to gaze again. Some looked on with handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths to check the screams which might have disconcerted the combatants. Intense emotion caused a few to swoon away.
The tide seemed to be turning in favor of Paul. He began to press the duke, whose strength was beginning to fail. Mighty in a first onset, he lacked the steady endurance of his adversary. Suddenly, while bending sideways to avoid a thrust which he had failed to parry, Bora lost his balance and fell. In falling, his sword flew from his hand.
And there he was, resting upon one knee, defenceless, at the mercy of his opponent.
The spirit of chivalry restrained Paul from giving the fatal stroke.
"I cannot slay an unarmed man," he said.
"What folly is this?" cried Zabern, starting up in wrath. "Did he spare Trevisa? Would he spare you if you were now in his place? This is no time for generosity or mercy. The princess's throne is at stake. Strike and spare not."
Bora neither moved nor spoke, awaiting his end in trembling terror. Paul's refusal to strike evoked the long-suppressed feelings of the Poles.
"Kill! kill!"
The lofty arches rang with excited cries. Even tender ladies, carried away by the heat of the moment, added their voices to those of the men. Paul, looking around upon the assembly, saw nothing but a forest of waving hands, and a multitude of fierce-gleaming eyes urging him to the bloody work.
"No quarter can be granted," said the herald. "You have each sworn an oath to slay, or be slain."
But inasmuch as Paul was not to be moved from his purpose, there was no other course left than to permit the duke to resume the combat.
"You have given him time to recover himself," grumbled Zabern, as he sat down again. "It is a violation of the rules."
During his discomfiture, Bora had glanced more than once at the Czar, as if supplicating his intervention. But the emperor sat impassive as a statue, ignoring the silent appeal. Relying on the duke's boastful assurances of victory, Nicholas had assented to the policy of the duel as a convenient and constitutional way of deposing the princess. It now seemed that this plan would fail. Then let the duke pay the penalty merited by his presumption. Woe to the man who deceives the Czar! Bora's heart sank within him at sight of the emperor's cold face.
The contest now entered upon its last, its fatal phase.
Equality had disappeared between the two champions; the duel was virtually over; the result known to all present; it was merely a question of time.
And the person most conscious of this was the duke himself. His confident swagger had vanished. He was fighting now, not for glory or a throne, but for dear life itself.
He made no attempt to assail Paul. Why should he? He could do no more than he had done. He had tried again and again to reach his adversary, and with graceful ease Paul had parried each cut and tierce. He could escape death only by some negligence on the part of his opponent, but that opponent was too keen to be caught erring.
Little by little Bora was forced backwards, till at last further retreat was rendered impossible by the cord attached to his ankle; yet farther back he must go if hemust avoid that sabre-point, which, swift and deadly as the tongue of a serpent, glittered continually within an inch of his face and breast.
His strength was ebbing fast; his arm had grown completely wearied by the constant parrying; he longed to throw away his weapon and cry for mercy; but for the restraining cord he would have cast himself at the feet of the Czar to implore his intervention. The despair pictured on his face produced a painful feeling among the more sensitive portion of the spectators.
With vision continually blurred by the great drops of sweat that hung from his eyebrows, the duke struggled on, till at last came the end.
Tempted from his defensive Bora made a sudden thrust, and his sabre-point entered a tiny orifice in the ornamental work that formed the cross-guard of Paul's sword. Lunging with wild vehemence, Bora was unable to check his impetus, and the result was that the blade of his weapon instantaneously curved upwards with such force as to snap in two, while at the same moment Paul's sabre, darting forward horizontally, entered the duke's breast, and passed out under his left shoulder.
Bora's arms flew aloft with a convulsive jerk; the fragment of his blade dropped with a ringing sound upon the pavement; he gave a strange gasping sigh, and then his body slid from Paul's blade and lay on the floor in a huddled heap.
"Now, I call that a very pretty fight," remarked Zabern.
A long shout of triumph arose from the Poles, followed a few seconds later by a tremendous roaring from the populace outside, as the white standard flew up the flagstaff, announcing the victory of the princess's champion.
As the Czar beheld his champion lying dead, a wave of anger swept over him, suppressed immediately by his stern fortitude.
"The word of the Czar is sacred," he cried, rising from his seat and addressing the assembly. "Barbara Lilieska is Princess of Czernova. Let the coronation proceed."
Paul, released from the cord that had confined him to the place of combat, here turned and confronted the emperor.
"Your Majesty," he remarked, with a somewhat cold expression, "ere claiming to exercise suzerainty in Czernova, will do well to await the arrival of your Foreign Minister now on his way hither."
The Czar stared haughtily at Paul, having no idea whatever of his meaning, while Zabern, equally mystified, murmured,—
"In the name of the saints, explain your saying."
Paul whispered a few words into the ear of the marshal, who received the communication with an expression of incredulity.
"It is true," asseverated Paul. "And," he added, "here comes the confirmer of my words."
A slight commotion here took place at the far end of the cathedral, and there entered a man of distinguished presence whom Zabern immediately recognized as the Russian Minister for Foreign Affairs. Then the marshal no longer doubted. His face became lighted withan expression of joy, succeeded the next moment by one of trouble.
"The Convent of the Transfiguration!" he murmured.
"There is our danger. We are lost if our secret documents fall into the Czar's hands. And how is it to be prevented with a Russian regiment in possession of the monastery?"
The newcomer on entering had thrown a quick glance around, and catching sight of the emperor standing upon the edge of the choir, he at once made his way to the imperial presence.
"Count Nesselrode! you here! How is this?" asked the Czar, perceiving plainly that trouble was in the air.
"A despatch from the Court of St. James's, requiring your Majesty's immediate attention," replied Nesselrode, sinking upon one knee as he presented the document. "On receiving it from the British ambassador, I instantly set off for Zamoska, travelling day and night; and, learning on my arrival there that you would be found in the cathedral of Slavowitz, I have hastened hither. A grave despatch, your Majesty," he added in a lower tone, "a despatch affecting this very principality. Hence my haste to deliver it to you."
The emperor sat down again, broke the seal of the envelope, unfolded the despatch, and proceeded to read it with a darkening countenance.
The only person in the cathedral whose eyes were not set upon the Czar at this particular juncture was Zabern, who was himself occupied in the reading of two very interesting documents which had just been put into his hands.
During the course of the duel there had entered the cathedral the chief of the Police Bureau, who had personally taken upon himself to investigate matters relative to the murder of Cardinal Ravenna. His search in the archiepiscopal palace had resulted in the finding of certainpapers, so extraordinary in their character that the police-official felt constrained to hasten at once to Zabern with the news of his discovery. The sight of the duel had kept him dumb and motionless, but as soon as it was over he had hurried to the side of Zabern.
"Marshal," he whispered, "what name did the Czar give to our princess?"
"Barbara Lilieska. That is her true name, Casimir."
"Then these papers do not depose her?" said the chief of the police, exhibiting what he had found.
"Depose her?" repeated Zabern, as he ran his delighted eye over the document. "By the soul of Sobieski, you could not have brought a more acceptable gift to her Highness. This will—"
"Marshal, is it true that the princess has not yet been informed of the result of the duel?"
It was Paul who spoke, and he spoke with some warmth.
"Such have been my orders."
"Why do you prolong her suspense?"
"Who more fitting than the victor himself to convey the glad tidings? Go. Carry these papers with you. Tell the princess that they were found in the cardinal's palace!"
Taking the documents from the hand of Zabern, Paul proceeded to the sacristy, where he had left Barbara.
She was alone on her knees in prayer. She had heard the rapturous applause ringing through the cathedral aisles; she had heard the still louder shout from the square, and had trembled, knowing that all was over.
But when moment after moment went by and no one came with tidings, a black pall of horror fell over her. It must be that the duke's sword had prevailed, and that her friends from pity hesitated to come forward with the truth.