“You are never without arms then, mademoiselle?” I said. She glanced at me searchingly, and instantly I remembered Von Gaden’s remark that she had her father’s spirit. There was something about her mouth which suggested the quick decision and unfaltering resolution that properly belong to the sterner sex. “I am never unprepared for the worst, M. de Brousson,” she replied calmly. “I have neither father nor mother nor brother to protect me. I am an orphan, and here in Russia a girl has little freedom of choice.” “Pardon me, mademoiselle,” I said, strongly moved, “I have learned that your uncle is forcing an unwelcome marriage upon you; are you in any danger of being compelled to submission?” The color blazed on the delicate cheek, and for a moment I saw pride struggling with a weaker feeling; then her eyes filled with tears, and she clasped her hands together in an effort to maintain her composure. “I cannot be forced into that marriage, monsieur,” she said in a low voice, “for I can die.” “Mademoiselle!” I cried out, “is it as bad as that?” She bent her head, and I saw the tears glistening on her eyelashes. I forgot my situation, I forgot my absurd guise, and in a moment I was kneeling beside her, with one of her hands clasped in mine. “Mademoiselle Zénaïde,” I said, in a low voice, “he shall never so sacrifice you while I live. There is one sword always at your service.” Her beautiful face was crimson with embarrassment, and her hand fluttered in my detaining clasp; but I saw that she was deeply touched, even if half-frightened at my vehemence. “Alas, M. le Vicomte,” she exclaimed, looking at me sorrowfully, “what could you do among so many? How could you oppose my uncle?” Remembering the lost packet and Sophia’s probable displeasure, I was a little nonplussed myself. “I would find some way to save you!” I exclaimed. “For my king’s sake, I am privileged at court, and I would appeal to the czar.” “Ah, no!” she said, at once losing hope, “you forget that the man whom my uncle has selected is a cousin of the Czar Peter.” “It matters not!” I exclaimed desperately, “I would find a way; your uncle has no right to barter your happiness.” She smiled bitterly. “A young girl’s happiness is not often considered,” she said; “sometimes I think it is better to be old and ugly like Mademoiselle Eudoxie, since no one could desire to marry her.” “Never regret being beautiful, mademoiselle,” I said impulsively, “since you can give happiness by merely smiling upon the rest of us poor mortals!” “Hush!” she exclaimed, “I hear a footstep. Arise, M. le Vicomte. If the door is opened now, you are betrayed.” “I will not rise until I have thanked you,” I replied gallantly, “for it is to you I owe my liberty, perhaps my life, and, mademoiselle, I find the debt a sweet one.” “It is nothing,” she cried hurriedly; “but if you do not rise, monsieur, you will betray me, and bring down a deluge on my head.”