"If that which he experienced for her who was gone was but the adoration and boundless reverence for a being of another world, whose wings were already bearing her heavenward when first he knew her? If all the affection, tenderness, devotion which led him to the feet of his worshipped bride were but sacrifices offered at the shrine of a saint to keep her in life?" Alexander struck his forehead with his hand. "You are right! I never inquired into it. Never asked him if the dream of love were more than a sick girl's fancy? He suffered himself to be bound by that dream. That was the whole of it. In his heart he loved another, and would have sacrificed himself for her. It was all my doing, my fault--for everything I do is faulty, and everything that goes wrong is through me!" These words were spoken by the Czar of All the Russias, not in bitterness, but with the deep melancholy of conviction. It moved the heart to pity. Suddenly he turned to Zeneida. "Do you wish me, then, to grant Pushkin permission to return?" "No, sire. He is in good hands. Whoever is a true friend to him would rather desire that he should live a happy life _far from St. Petersburg_!" This surprised Araktseieff. He threw his pen down and scrutinized Zeneida. "And for yourself, have you no wishes?" continued the Czar. "I am leaving St. Petersburg to-morrow, sire!" "And do you not wish that I should send you back your credentials?" Oh, how proudly she raised her head at the words! She, too, was a queen, and she proved it. "Sire, where I am once shown that my presence is unwelcome I do not remain!" It was an audacious speech, bordering on treason, and not the manner in which to address the Czar of All the Russias! Springing from his chair, it was the favorite and not the melancholy monarch who hastened to reply to the haughty singer. "Are you aware, young lady, that there are duties from which a feeling of wounded pride does not exempt us? To them belongs the respect due to the throne and ruler, to whom you owe your fame." Zeneida's bosom heaved; her nostrils dilated like those of a zebra prepared for the fight with a wolf. Her great dark flashing eyes threatened to annihilate the favorite; her lips quivered as if with fever. "Your Excellency," she gasped, "there are men who have carried gratitude to their benefactors to the other ends of the earth with them, and who, though they had the misfortune to lose the favor of their august protectors, _have not gone home to sing the 'Knife Song'_!" This was such a smart slap in the face to Araktseieff that he went back to his seat as though thinking it not worth his while to reply to the insinuation. Did she really know about it? Had she her secret spies--perhaps Diabolka?--the gypsy girl could write now! Instead of his silenced favorite, the Czar now took up the lance. It was but fair. If the squire defends his lord, surely his lord should defend the squire.