Wilfrid could not help wondering why Paul’s widow should honour him, of all persons in the world, with this confidence, seeing that, only two days before, he had given dire offence to her husband. Doubtless he would receive an explanation ere long of a circumstance that at present was altogether inexplicable. Pausing for a time before she began her narrative, and often pausing after she _had_ begun, the Duchess proceeded to describe Paul’s death, one of the grimmest stories in the annals of Czardom. Two nights before—to tell the tale more connectedly than it was told by the Duchess—upon the stroke of eleven, twenty cloaked men presented themselves at one of the gates of the palace. They were the ministers, relatives, and friends of the Czar, among them being Count Pahlen, the chief of the conspiracy; General Benningsen, a savage when roused to anger; and Prince Ouvaroff, a patriot actuated by the best and purest of motives. The soldier on guard permitted them to pass, never suspecting that treason lurked beneath those brilliant uniforms and the decorations that attested rank and dignity. Once within the palace they silently ascended to the Emperor’s apartments. On guard before the bedroom door stood Lieutenant Voronetz. Guessing their errand, he shouted “Treason!” and, faithful to his trust, he drew his sabre, though well knowing that resistance meant death. “We have no quarrel with you,” said Benningsen. “Stand aside from that door! You will not? Well, then, if you prefer to die——” A dozen blades were stabbing and slashing at Voronetz; his hand was hewn off; mutilated and moaning he fell. The door was fastened on the inside; a violent kick burst it open, and in rushed the conspirators. The Czar was not to be seen. “He cannot have fled far,” said Benningsen. “His bed is still warm. Ah! Yon screen!” From behind the screen there stepped a little figure clad only in a dressing-gown. The conspirators, about to rush forward, checked themselves. There was in the figure a certain air of dignity that awed them in spite of their resolve. However insignificant in person, he was nevertheless the Czar, descendant of a long line of Czars, only son of the great Catharine, and nearest in blood to the mighty Peter himself. His picture hung in a million homes; tyrant though he were, ten million persons would weep if hurt befell the Little Father; ten million voices would demand vengeance upon the slayers! Appalled at the magnitude of their intended deed some of the conspirators shrank back, and with averted faces stole towards the door. But the master-spirit of the scene, Benningsen, intercepted them with drawn sabre. “No weakness, or I slay you.” The figure spoke. “By whose authority do you come here thus?” “By the authority of the Czar Alexander.” Paul’s eye flashed. “Alexander is not Czar.” “He will be when—you have signed this,” said Benningsen, holding forth a paper. “’Tis your act of abdication.” “I will never abdicate!”