“Death!” queried Wilfrid, somewhat startled at the word. “At the hands of the State.” “Ah!” said Wilfrid, beginning to receive a glimmer of light. “She is a lady important politically?” “Very much so,” replied the diplomatist with a look that confirmed his statement. “What prospect have I of winning this lady’s affections?” “I have discovered, no matter how, that you are the only man in Europe who can succeed.” “Really! That’s very flattering to my vanity,” laughed Wilfrid. “The lady did not send you on this mission, I trust?” “She is modesty itself, and would die rather than commission any one on such an errand.” “I ask her pardon for wronging her in thought. Have you got her portrait?” The Count hesitated for a moment, and then drew forth an ivory miniature. “Painted three months ago. It scarcely does her justice.” As Wilfrid’s eyes fell on the miniature he fairly held his breath. It was a face more beautiful than any he had ever seen. The soft violet eyes and the lovely delicate features, with their sweet grave expression that spoke of a nature, pensive and _spirituelle_, might well inspire love in the heart even of the coldest; much more then in that of a romantic character like Wilfrid. “Well, what do you think of it?” asked Baranoff. “It is the face of an angel,” replied Wilfrid as he returned the miniature. “What is her name?” he added. “You do not recognise her?” “No.” “I thought perhaps you _might_ have recognised the face. Her name? Pardon me, I will give it if you are prepared to undertake the _rôle_ of lover—if not, ’twere best, in the lady’s interests, to keep it secret.” Wilfrid reflected. A lady of political consequence, Baranoff had called her, threatened by the State with death if she listened to love-vows! Wilfrid was sufficiently versed in Russian history to know that the reigning dynasty was a younger branch of the House of Romanoff, and that a return to the rights of primogeniture would deprive the present Czar of his crown. Was the lady with the angel-face a descendant of the elder line, and thus so nearly related to the throne that, in the Court of the gloomy and suspicious Paul the First, it would be perilous for any man, even the highest among Russia’s nobility, to aspire to her hand? Imbued with this idea Wilfrid began to weave a whole political romance around the person of the beautiful unknown. Was she, though nominally at liberty, a virtual prisoner at the Czar’s Court, watched by a hundred suspicious eyes—pining for affection, yet forbidden to marry? To try to set her free from such gloomy environment was no more than his duty. And Wilfrid, if Baranoff had spoken truly, was certain of gaining her love! To woo and carry off a fair princess from the power of a jealous Czar was just the sort of enterprise that appealed to his knightly and romantic character. He could no longer hesitate. “Do you assent?”