"Araktseieff is returned, and his iron hand is wielded over our heads. You, fair Madonna, had exiled him with your refined arts. Now it has become evident that the refinement of intrigue does not pay in our atmosphere. The old tyrant is back, and the Czar more completely in his power than ever." "I know it. I have had intimation that a farewell audience will only be accorded me in his presence." "And you are going?" "Decidedly. I must reconcile the Czar with Pushkin." "Is that your only reason?" "What else keeps me here?" "The wish to depose friend Araktseieff." "I have no power to do that." "Well, then, I have." "By violence?" "It is already done. To-morrow morning will no longer see him in St. Petersburg. I have struck him to the heart, and not with a dagger. His fate is already sealed. He is dead and buried already, though he has no idea of it. Read this letter." Zeneida's face changed from ghastly white to fiery red as she hastily perused the letter handed her by Jakuskin. Her lips parted with surprise and horror as she read. "You are terrible men!" stammered she, as she gave it back. "We understand what we are about, eh?" "And he knows nothing of it?" "There is not a man about him who dares to make it known to him. Diabolka wrote me herself. I have copied her letter and sent the whole affair to the Czar through the Sophien post. May he learn it from the lips of the Czar--or, what is still more probable, may it fall into his own hands in opening the Czar's letters. Ah, Zeneida! If only he received the letter at the very time that you were having audience! If only you could see him then! Oh, I could fain envy you the satisfaction of that moment!" * * * * * Zeneida's audience was appointed for the next day. It was the Czar's usual habit, on leaving Monplaisir at five in the afternoon, to pass a short time at the Hermitage, which stood near the Winter Palace and had been a favorite resort of Catherine II. His library here, where he transacted business, was furnished very simply. Hither were brought to him the letters which came by the Sophien post. The apartment was now reserved to Araktseieff's use, who sat there from morning to evening settling, on his own responsibility, the affairs of the vast empire in the name of the Czar. Matters of home and foreign policy, religion, education, trade, finance, all were dependent on his sole will; ministers and stadt holders alike his puppets. Alexander would take no part in anything--signing, unread, whatever Araktseieff laid before him. Those drafts laid aside by him were mere waste paper. To-day, too, found the favorite hard at work at the Czar's own writing-table, Alexander restlessly pacing the room, for Fräulein Ilmarinen alone had been granted audience that day. Zeneida presented herself at the appointed hour. She was dressed in deep mourning, her golden hair forming a striking contrast to her sombre attire.