“Who would not be painfully affected by the attempt to perpetrate such a crime, sir?” returned General Sertchaieff. “Whom can we trust when Scythia turns our peasant-girls into assassins? I know these women: they will dare everything and tell nothing.” “I hope you will find you are mistaken,” said Caerleon. “I myself am quite convinced that it was not an attempt at assassination at all.” Etiquette forbade General Sertchaieff to advance an opinion contrary to that of his sovereign, but he shook his head sadly, and it was evident that the people were sharers in his belief. Indeed, before Caerleon returned to the palace, it was commonly known in the city that the would-be assassin--a woman of extraordinary stature, and armed with three dynamite bombs, a dagger, and a couple of revolvers--had mounted the step of the carriage and dealt a stab at the King, which was only not fatal because the troopers had seized her and dragged her back just in time. In view of such a determined attempt at murder, it is not wonderful that the people thronged into the churches to return thanks for the King’s escape, and that every loyal householder in Bellaviste devised and proceeded to execute marvellous impromptu illuminations for the evening with candles and oil-lamps. Cyril smiled grimly over the popular enthusiasm as he returned to the palace, and wondered impatiently how things were ever to be set right. Out of doors, the people were breathing out furious threats against the assassin; inside the palace Caerleon was waiting in restless anxiety for news of her. “Well, where is she?” he asked eagerly, as Cyril came in. “In the prison. We had to take her there to save her life,--the people were kicking up such a row,” as Caerleon uttered an exclamation of horror; “but she is in the governor’s house, treated as a guest; and the governor’s wife, rather a jolly old lady, but as deaf as a post,--which is an advantage under the circumstances,--is looking after her like a mother.” “But what brought her here?” “She came to warn you of a plot. So far as I can make out--for she won’t mention any names--that good-for-nothing father of hers is intending to murder you to-morrow on the way to Tatarjé. Madame O’Malachy died the other day, and on her deathbed she let out the secret. Miss O’Malachy kept her own counsel, and started off here as soon as she could to give you the tip.” Caerleon drew a long breath. “Well,” he said triumphantly, “I hope you see now that it is positively incumbent on me to marry her. Think of her coming all that way to warn me! She must care for me, after all.” “I was always under the impression that she did care for you, but refused you on conscientious grounds for the good of the kingdom,” said Cyril.