Down his self-appointed path Stanief was moving steadfastly in those months. And the first treasure left behind, the hardest to resign, had been Iría's confidence. Locked within the old timidity, she avoided her husband whenever it was possible to do so, hiding her eyes from him when necessity brought them together, coming no more to his study. But there was one exception: every morning, after Stanief's visit to the palace, she waited for him in her carriage. Silent, her hands clasped in her lap, replying with hesitating monosyllables, she sat by his side during the drive home, one of her ladies opposite them. Before Adrian, Stanief lifted his head a little more proudly, let his lashes fall a little lower, and went on his way without protest. He had enough to do, as he toiled to place the country in a position to continue without him. Wisely, tactfully, striving not to antagonize the Emperor to the right policy by claiming it as his own, he prepared the guiding lines to lie peacefully in the inexperienced grasp soon to take them. It was not a happy task, or a light one, and he worked at it absolutely alone except for Allard's passionate and powerless sympathy. But still he worked. And because there was so much to be done, it seemed to him that the days slipped through his fingers like beads of a broken chain. So winter set its seal of silence on river and snow-muffled street before he realized the fading summer. With spring would end the regency. "How many months now, cousin?" drawled the Emperor, returning from the races held upon the glittering ice of the river, and pausing on the steps of the palace to unclasp his too oppressive furs. "Five, sire," answered the tranquil Regent. "I believe I have to congratulate your Imperial Majesty upon the victories in to-day's sport." "My horses? Ah, yes; this is my fortunate year. Thank you, cousin." And Allard, in attendance, bit his lip until a tiny thread of crimson sprang beneath the pressure. Faster and faster the beads were slipping from the chain; the path was straight to the end and very short. CHAPTER XV AT THE GATES OF CHANGE Once more Stanief was alone in his study, on the morning when Allard made his first rebellion. The windows were open and a warm, sweet breeze drifted the curtains into the room like snowy mists from the past winter, rustling on among the papers upon the writing-table, as Stanief laid down his work to listen to the visitor. It was so rare to see Allard excited and he was so vibrant with indignation as he stood before the other.