“It is with pain and regret, your Majesty, that I bring an accusation against one of the Imperial house.” For a moment the Czar looked as if he doubted his own hearing. “Accusation?” he exclaimed haughtily. “Of what nature?” “Ah! Sire, I fear to say, knowing what a blow it will be.” “Tush! Am I a child? The weakling king who desires to hear nothing but what is pleasant will never hear the truth. What is this accusation?” “It concerns the honour of a lady, who—how shall I say it?” “Go on,” said Alexander sharply, as Baranoff paused again. “Your Majesty will surely understand me when I say that she whom the Czar loves should keep herself sacred to the Czar.” His Majesty _didn’t_ seem to understand, to judge by his perplexed looks. “What would you imply?” “Knowing, Sire, how great is your love for the Grand Duchess Marie—your pardon, I ought to call her——” “Is this a time for titles? You would accuse _her_? Of what? Speak out, and speak the truth; for, as there is a God above us, you receive a stroke of the knout for every false word.” He spoke in real anger, but beneath it all it was easy to see there lurked a fear that what Baranoff would say might prove true. “Of what would you accuse her?” “Of letting her love wander from the Czar.” “To whom?” “To an Englishman.” “His name.” “Lord Courtenay.” It seemed as if the name were familiar to the Czar; at any rate he asked no question as to who Lord Courtenay might be. “Your proofs?” he asked, affecting a disdain that did not deceive Baranoff. “She wears at her heart a locket containing his portrait.” “Natural that she should preserve some souvenir of a man who once saved her life.” “Sire, a fortnight ago she obtained Paul’s sanction to leave St. Petersburg for a few days. Why?” “For prayer and meditation in the Convent of the Ascension.” Baranoff smiled satirically. “In returning she stopped at a wayside hamlet, named Gora, and stayed for the night at an inn called the Silver Birch.” “You are telling me what I already know.” “Do you know this, Sire, that Lord Courtenay was at this inn on that self-same night?” No, the Czar did not know that, if one must judge by his startled look. “Did they see each other?” “Sire, in the dead of the night he was seen stealing from her bed-chamber.” “A lie as black as hell!” cried Alexander in a sudden blaze of wrath, the more striking from his previous enforced calmness. Unable longer to control himself he sprang to his feet, at the same time half-unsheathing his sword, as if with the intention of striking the other dead. Then, as reason asserted itself, the weapon slid from his relaxed fingers down into its scabbard again, and the Emperor resumed his seat, glancing at the door as if fearing lest his voice should have reached the ears of his ministers in the ante-chamber. “If it be a lie, ascribe it not to me, but to Prince Ouvaroff, from whom I receive the story.”