Chapter XVIII: The Great White Czar

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 have lived, 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 Prince Thaddeus, 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 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. Strong men 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 the _mêlée_, 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 Feodor Orloff," 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 me know 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 emperor _quid 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 duelling be 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--I AM princess!" 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, and bitterly 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 his shoulders, 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 the _salle d'armes_ with 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 depart with 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, I _know_," 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 harness the 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!"