“But what is it, what is it, why do you keep me in such suspense? Ah; you are cruel!” sighed the Princess Baba. “But you certainly do dance very well. Oh, how I love dancing! When I was very young I used to dream that I would like to be loved by a fairy prince with finger-nails of lapis-lazuli, but lately I have dreamed that I would like to be an exhibition-dancer in a night-club. But are you sure this is the nearest way to the door? It is so very crowded that I can’t see it, but how well you guide, almost as well as you kiss a lady’s hand! But quick, quick, to the door!” “I am doing my best, Princess, guiding you through this crowd. It is amazing how generously middle-aged people dance these days, denying their elbows and feet to no one who comes near them.” “But my lover dies--the door, the door!” cried the Princess Baba. “And by Heaven, through it!” “And now your plan?” “Ah, you may well ask!” laughed our hero. V The tall figure of Lord Quorn lay crumpled and inert where he had fallen against the tree-trunk. Only his eyes retained the magic gift of life, and they looked upon the scene with sardonic resignation. Who shall describe what thoughts then passed through the dying gallant’s mind? He was mortally wounded. Count Rupprecht lay stretched on his back a few yards away, the grass about him soaked with the blood that flowed from his pierced lung. He was dead. Above him stood the Duke, silently. Mr. Woodhouse Adams was on his knees beside his dying friend. “You got him, anyhow,” said he. “He’ll never know Christmas from Easter again.” “Fluke,” sighed Lord Quorn. “I always had the luck.” “Luck, do you call it,” cried his friend, “to be killed!” “It is better to be killed than to die,” said Lord Quorn faintly. His Highness called grimly: “Ho, there! Ho, page!” “_Altesse!_” “Boy, go call my chaplain instantly.” “Pester me with no priests, sir, I beg you!” cried the wicked Lord Quorn. “I was born without one, I have lived without one, I have loved without one, and I can damn well die without one.” “Then has death no terrors for you, Lord Quorn?” “Why, sir, I go to meet my Maker with the best heart in the world! I have lived a perfectly delightful life in the best possible way. Can Paradise show a more consummate achievement! Or must one have been bored to death in this world to win eternal life in the next?” “Then, page,” grimly said His Highness, “go tell the Princess Baba the issue of the duel. Do not spare the truth. Count Rupprecht lies dead in defence of her honour and the honour of Valeria; and Lord Quorn will shortly be answering to God for his sins. And further tell the Princess that she is permitted to say farewell to her lover. Begone!” “Thank you very much,” sighed Lord Quorn. But the page was not gone above a moment before he was returned, saying breathlessly: