"You may be sorrier still, if you persist," said the Captain darkly, detecting, as he fancied, symptoms of wavering on the other's part. "We move in strange times, Lieutenant, and my goodwill is better worth having than my enmity." At this juncture, Trafford,--who had overheard this conversation, and whose approach had been inaudible on the thick carpet of the Palace corridor,--coughed affectedly, and advanced with admirable swagger. "I wish to see her Majesty," he said, addressing the lieutenant on guard, and completely ignoring Von Hügelweiler. It was the latter, however, who answered him. "The Queen is resting, and will see no one," he said roughly. Trafford paid not the slightest attention to the Captain's words. "My name is Trafford," he went on, to the officer. The Lieutenant's face was a picture of puzzled dismay. His orders were to conduct Trafford to the royal apartments as soon as he presented himself. To all others he was to give the message that her Majesty was exceedingly fatigued and would on no account see anyone. After a moment's embarrassed indecision,--during which he felt Von Hügelweiler's eyes absolutely scorching him,--he bade Trafford follow, and turning his back on the furious Captain, led the way down the long corridor. Arriving at a doorway concealed by a heavy curtain, he pushed open a massive oak portal and signalled Trafford to enter. The chamber in which the latter now found himself was lofty, smelling of incense, and lit by lamps hanging from a frescoed ceiling. At the far end was an altar garnished with many candles and a silver crucifix. This undoubtedly was the private chapel of the Neptunburg. "We are awaiting you," said the quiet voice of Gloria. Trafford advanced towards the new Queen, who was standing before the steps of the altar in the company of a priest. The chapel was dark, for the stained-glass windows shut out most of the remaining light, and the hanging lamps were little more than points of ruby flame. And yet he could see that Gloria's face was still of an even pallor, and that her eyes were red from recent tears. "I am a woman of my word, you see," she went on in dull tones. "I promised to marry you under certain conditions, and, those conditions being fulfilled, I waste no time." "You are carrying out the letter of the contract," returned Trafford, "but are you observing the spirit? I did not bargain for a tearful bride." "The tears are dried and gone." "But not the cause that made them flow. You wept because you are a woman, and the woman who regards even the formula of marriage as a little matter has yet to see the light of day. And you wept because you are not sure which thing conscience commands--the violation of a contract or the taking of false vows." "You are strangely wise to-day," she said with a faint smile. "I did not know such intuition lurked in that wild brain of yours." "I am right, then?"