"You, Groder!" said Otto. "I have no more cord," growled Michael, as he tied the knots viciously about my wrists. Something rattled lightly on the ground. 'Twas the girdle of the Countess, with the fan attached to the end of it. Groder plucked the fan off, struck my heels from under me, and bound the girdle round and round my ankles until they jarred together and I felt the bones cracking. Otto took his knee from my chest, and the two men went back to their former stations by the door. Father Spaur came over to where I lay, rubbing his hands gently together. "Really, really!" said he in a silky voice, "so the cockatoo has been caged after all." The words, recalling that morning in London when first I allowed myself to take heart in my hopes, so stung me that, tied as I was, I struggled on to my feet, and so stood tottering. Father Spaur drew back a pace and glanced quickly about him. "Michael!" he called. But the next instant I fell heavily forward upon his breast. He burst into a loud laugh of relief, and flung me back upon the settle. I looked towards Ilga. "What have you not told him?" I asked. "Nothing!" she said coldly. "I, at all events, had nothing to conceal." She motioned Father Spaur to fall back. Otto and Groder picked up their swords. Father Spaur unlatched the door, rubbed out the torch upon the boards, and one after another they stepped from the pavilion. Ilga followed last, but she did not turn her head as she went out. Through the open doorway I could see the shadows dancing on the terrace, I could hear the music pouring from the Castle in a lilting measure. The door closed, the pavilion became black once more, and I heard their footsteps recede across the pavement and grow silent upon the grass. CHAPTER XX. IN THE PAVILION. COUNTESS LUKSTEIN EXPLAINS. Of the horror which the next two hours brought to me, I find it difficult to speak, even at this distance of time. 'Twas not the fear of what might be in store for me that oppressed my mind, though God knows I do not say this to make a boast of it; for doubtless some fear upon that score would have argued me a better man; but in truth I barely sent a thought that way. The savour of life had become brine upon my lips, and I cared little what became of me, so that the ending was quick.