Wilfrid’s words, the Czarina’s attitude, put the finishing touches to the Emperor’s fury. With a cry of “Look to yourself!” he rushed upon the defiant Englishman, but, on the very point of making a savage lunge, he stopped short; his sabre dropped; and then, his face flushing purple and his eyes rolling in their orbits, he fell prostrate on the floor. CHAPTER XXXII FLIGHT Startled at the strange turn of events the three spectators stood, staring in doubt and fear at the unconscious figure. Was this collapse the stroke of death? Before they had time to ascertain for themselves there came an insistent knocking at the door, as of someone attracted by the screaming. Wilfrid walked forward and, opening the door just wide enough to ascertain who the new-comer was, beheld Beauvais standing without. “The very man we want,” he said, pulling the surprised doctor within and locking the door. “The Czar requires your aid.” Beauvais, being a wise man, spent no time in asking irrelevant questions. Hurrying forward he knelt down, and examined the body of the fallen emperor. “An apoplectic stroke. Takes after his father Paul,” said Beauvais, as he loosened the Czar’s military collar and bade Wilfrid bring him a carafe of water. “Is it serious?” asked Pauline. “I think not, but one never knows.” “How long will it be before consciousness returns?” she continued. “I cannot say. He may recover in an hour; in two hours; five; perhaps more. It is impossible to tell. Let me have help, Baroness.” With Wilfrid’s aid Beauvais laid the Czar upon the ottoman, while Pauline summoned two maids to assist the doctor’s ministrations. This done she gently drew Wilfrid and the Empress to a small anteroom and, with downcast eyes and humble air, knelt before the latter. “Your Majesty——” she began. “Majesty!” exclaimed the other. It frightened her to see Pauline suppliant at her feet. “Yes, for you are in truth the Czarina——” “Is this a conspiracy to mock me, or is it really the truth? I cannot—I _cannot_ believe it. It is so strange that I—that I should be—Ah! would to heaven that I were not! What do I gain by the change?—Would that I were dead!” she murmured with a look of unutterable anguish. “O Wilfrid, Wilfrid, we are lost to each other.” If Pauline ever felt remorse, she felt it at that moment as she contemplated these two, with whose affections she had wantonly sported for the sake of her own ambition. “Yes, reproach me,” she said, observing Wilfrid’s grave eyes set upon her. “I deserve your bitterest censure. My only excuse is that it was done for France—for France. I have acted wickedly, yet I repented, but—but it was too late! And I, too, have suffered—” She swayed and would have fallen had not the Czarina held her up by the wrists. For a few moments they continued in this attitude, till the Czarina, pitying Pauline’s unhappy look, stooped and kissed her. “I forgive you,” she murmured, raising the other.