“Time!--a woman like Ranata for six months, a year, in confinement and uncertainty! She must be got out at once, and there is only one person who can make the deliverance final. Now I am going to say something that will make you all jump. My brother intends to marry Ranata.” They did jump, with the exception of Vilma. “_Ach so!_” Sarolta’s tones were guttural with irony, but her fingers shook slightly as she lit a cigar. “But, mademoiselle,” murmured Prince Illehazy politely, “you know, of course, that it is impossible. No one can sympathize more than I with the romance of youth, and I have been deeply interested; but marriage--between an Archduchess of Austria and Princess of Hungary and, pardon me, an American--you who know your Europe must surely have discouraged Mr. Abbott.” “I never set myself impossible tasks. Fessenden will marry Ranata; of that I have not the slightest doubt. I know now that I have always anticipated it--and so has my father!--although as far as I am concerned I thought of it until lately as a dream, rather. I know now that it was a belief, and founded on my intimate knowledge of both and of their fitness for each other; as well as on that very knowledge of Europe which assures me that if I live I shall see greater social revolutions than the marriage of an American with a princess of the blood. You are dumfounded because you know Europe only. Go over and live in the United States for a while and you will come back with the future in your brain as well as the past.” “I have never been in the United States, but I think this strange love-affair is the most beautiful thing in the world, and I would help them if I could!” It was Vilma who spoke, and she was leaning forward with her hands gripping the arms of her chair. The grayish pallor of her skin had never been more noticeable, and the lines about her mouth were tense. Not only had every nerve been on edge since Ranata’s departure two days ago, but she was possessed by the exaltation of the martyr; she was not going to the stake for the ideals of the proud aristocracy of her ancient country, but in sacrificing those ideals in the hope to compass the happiness of two exceptional beings she felt that she had made good her claim to the martyr’s crown. But the time had come when her morbidity might prove more useful than the healthy impatience of Alexandra, who had little talent for intrigue; and who looked upon Vilma as one of the unfortunate products of a too conservative aristocracy. “Princess,” she continued, appealing to her chief, “you do not approve, of course. But you would not betray us if we attempted to help her?” Sarolta bit the end of her cigar. “I would do all I could to help her out of this difficulty; but connive at her marriage with an American--never! I have outgrown romantic nonsense; and I am also a loyal subject of my king, although I do think he is an--”