and to consider her action solely from the standpoint of those Socialistic theories with which she was indissolubly associated. “Had I not frustrated the attempt, the crime would have been set down to us and our Brotherhood,” she said to herself, “Sergius--or Paul Zouche--or I myself--or even Pasquin--yes, even he!--might, and doubtless would, have been accused of instigating it. As it is, I think I have saved the situation.” She rose and walked slowly up and down the room. “I wonder who is behind the wretched boy concerned in this business? He is too young to have determined on such a deed himself,--unless he is mad;--he must be a tool in the hands of others.” Here spying her long black cloak hanging across a chair, she took it up and threw it round her,--her face was reflected back upon her from a mirror set in the wall, round which a cluster of ivory cupids clambered,--and she looked critically at her white drawn features, and the disordered masses of her hair. Loosening these abundant locks, she shook them down and gathered them into her one uncrippled hand, preparatory to twisting them into the usual knot at the back of her head, the while she looked at the little sculptured _amorini_ set round the mirror, with a compassionate smile. “Such a number of mimic Loves where there is no real love!” she said half aloud,--when the opening of a door, and the swaying movement of a curtain pushed aside, startled her; and still holding her rich hair up in her hand she turned quickly,--to find herself face to face with,--the King.