The old woman broke her invariable custom and laid her sewing down in her lap and looked at her mistress. “Perhaps death is coming to one of us,” added Sophia Dorothea. “We are both old. My death would be a relief to a great many. Even you would not be sorry, Annette.” She spoke knowing that Annette von Arlestein had not shared her imprisonment from any love or duty, but from necessity. She was as much a prisoner as her mistress. It had been decreed that she who had shared the shame should share the punishment. “It is too late,” said the Countess. “Twenty years ago I might have wished you would die. Twenty years ago I might have cursed you.” The quenchless dark eyes gleamed across at her. “You would not have stayed if you could have gone. No one else did.” Annette von Arlestein gave a toothless smile. “No, I should have gone–when I was younger. Life is dull here.” Sophia gave her a ghastly look. “Yes, it is dull.” A storm was blowing without. The wind cast the rain in gouts on the window; it dripped from the leads and splashed down the wide chimney in heavy drops that hissed on the logs. “Why do you not finish your sewing?” asked the Princess. “I have never seen you sit idle before.” “Why did you mention Count von Königsmarck?” replied Madame von Arlestein. “I have never heard you speak of him before.” “Every night lately I have been thinking of him. You know that.” “Yes, I know that.” Like an angry stranger demanding admission, the rain surged at the window and the faded curtains rose and fell in the wind. “Annette,” said Sophia Dorothea, “why have we lived, you and I? We could have died, you know. There was the moat, or a table-knife–or a bed-cord. But we lived.” “I suppose,” answered the old woman, “we hoped.” “_Mein Gott!_ We hoped!” The Countess looked across at her with dim eyes that seemed to glimmer with malice. “But now–if _he_ died to-morrow, it would be too late. There is no more enjoyment for you in this world.” “No more for me of anything,” said her mistress calmly. “Königsmarck is dead and youth is dead.” “Why are we talking of this?” asked the old woman peevishly, “when we have been silent so long?” “I do not know. Get on with your embroidery.” “_Der Herr Jesus!_ Why should I finish this work? Who will wear it?” “Talk, then, talk,” said Sophia Dorothea. “Something is different to-night.” “It is the rain,” nodded the old woman. Her monstrous shadow wavered behind her like a giant impotently threatening. “It is memory,” answered the Princess. She relaxed in her chair. Her arms, still lovely but colourless as the limbs of the dead, showed where the wide sleeves of dull blue fell apart, and her hands, almost inhumanly slender, clasped the polished knobs of the chair-arms. “Was I beautiful–that night?” she said. “I scarcely knew it.”