“Count!” The poor Baroness renounced the unequal struggle. “You knew it all the time, then? I was over-persuaded--her Majesty insisted--I was horrified, but still--Oh, come in, Count,” she began to unfasten the door. “You must say what you like to the Queen. I might have known that if you were determined to get in you would. Will your--your suite accompany you?” glancing doubtfully at Mansfield. “I am afraid I shall need his arm,” said Cyril, with a laugh. He was shaking from head to foot as Mansfield helped him through the doorway and across the paved hall into which it led. The Baroness, in a state of extreme trepidation, went before them, turning at every few steps to hasten them on, or warn them not to speak, but they met no one. A door at the farther end of the long hall led into an inner courtyard, which was partially laid out as a garden, and surrounded by a half-ruined colonnade, entwined with gourds and other creeping plants. In the shade of the dwarf palms and shrubs at the opposite side could be seen two white-robed figures. “Her Majesty walks here in the evenings,” said the Baroness, with a gasp of uncontrollable excitement, “and Princess Anna is with her. When they pass this doorway you must do what you think best,” and she fled back into the hall. “Mansfield! when she comes, help me to kneel down, and then make yourself scarce,” said Cyril breathlessly. He was gripping Mansfield’s arm hard as they stood in the shadow of the doorway, and the two women, unconscious of their presence, came slowly towards them. Anna Mirkovics seemed to be talking excitedly, regardless of etiquette, but the Queen paid little or no attention to her, pacing the time-worn stones in silence, with her eyes on the ground, and a half-smile upon her lips. “Surely, madame, you were not really thinking of returning to Brutli at present?” cried her companion, as they turned the corner. “Now!” panted Cyril to Mansfield, and as the Queen approached he fell on his knees before her. She started back, and Anna Mirkovics screamed. Mansfield had retreated swiftly into the doorway. “_Cyril_!” cried the Queen, irrepressible joy in her voice; then, more doubtfully, “Is it you, Count?” “My dearest, forgive me!” “Madame!” Anna Mirkovics had recovered herself, “allow me to have this person removed. Is he to be permitted to intrude himself upon you in this insolent manner? Madame, you will not suffer him to approach you?” “Anna, you forget yourself.” The maid of honour shrank before the tone, and the gesture with which the Queen waved her aside, but she made another valiant effort. “Oh, madame, listen to me for one moment! You know how I love you--that I would give everything I have in the world to provide a moment’s happiness for you. Don’t expose yourself again to this man’s cruelty. He returns to you merely that he may gratify his ambition. He cannot love. Trust me, madame; I love you better than my life.”