Ranata looked over the man’s head as if he had disappeared into the still shouting multitude; but he had the assurance of his race, which acknowledges neither country nor king, and he repeated: “It is always fatal, your Royal Highness.” Then Ranata looked down at him once more. After all, the creature was not worth crushing, and he was diverting. Moreover, he had known and doubtless been spoiled by her brother. Rudolf had told her many anecdotes of the gypsies who always attached themselves to his Transylvanian household. “You will not return to us!” continued the gypsy. “When Rudolf left us the last time I said he would not return. Nor did I predict it because he said to us not ‘_Aufwiedersehen_,’ but ‘_Good-bye_.’” “Is that true?” “It is true, but that was not the reason. When he came that last time I said he would not return.” “And how do you know I shall not return?” “Because love is fatal to the chosen Hapsburgs, your Royal Highness.” “Then they can avoid love,” said the Archduchess impersonally. “Not when they are made for it. Nature has protected many by a mask as ugly as the plague. When she gives them beauty be sure it is to scourge the proudest house on earth, and to chastise it for centuries of cruelty and oppression.” “Maria Theresia was beautiful.” “She was fat. She also had more children than a man ever can remember. Besides, she was not really beautiful.” “And you are not very logical. Other houses of Europe have records for injustice as great as ours may possibly have.” “Nature has taken other methods to punish them. Be sure that none shall escape.” “I suppose you wish to tell my fortune. I have not superstition enough for that, but in the name of my brother I will send you a purse to the servants’ quarters to-night.” She withdrew into the polite silence with which royalty lays down the burden of audience, but the gypsy held his ground. He thanked her extravagantly, and added: “I am more honest than most gypsies, your Royal Highness--I do not pretend to see too far into the future. But when a man’s heart is black with remorse and bitterness and hatred of life and the reckless indulgence of passions, I can see the end; and when a woman--” “Go!” said Ranata; and this time the man mingled his featureless sheepskin with the others. She beckoned to Zrinyi and spoke with him a moment. Then he stood beside her and lifted his hand. Every man seemed to shut his voice between his teeth. “Her Royal Highness wishes me to tell you,” said the Count, on a note which carried to those beyond the door, “that Rudolf is dead. That he has gone where you may meet him again if you are faithful and loyal subjects to the throne. She will tell you herself.” And Ranata said in Roumanian, and with the cold accent of finality, “He is dead.”