“Well, then, we will go back to Sitt Zeynab. You shall reign there in peace, and no one can come near you against your will. Wherever you are, there I shall be happy.” “My poor Ernestine, I am not worth it. You had better let me die, dear.” His eyes sought the pistol longingly. “I am a miserable, broken wretch, with no hope and no contentment left, and I shall lead you a terrible life.” “No life with you could be terrible to me. To be near you is joy enough. It was not your success I loved, it was you, and you are the same still. I love you, Cyril, I love you.” The passion of the tone, the eyes shining into his, the trembling hands laid upon his shoulders, stirred Cyril with a stronger emotion than he had ever known, and words came to his lips,--echoes, perhaps, of others heard long before in his childhood--he knew not how or whence. “God do so to me and more also, Ernestine, if I ever forget what you have done for me to-night. Dearest, you understand. Some women would have upbraided me for despising their love, but you are not like that. And you will have your reward. Politics will never again separate me from you, at any rate.” He kissed her gently on the forehead, and wrapped her cloak round her. “You must go back, dear, or you will be missed. A curious little interlude in the evening’s entertainment, isn’t it? Well, your coming here has saved me, such as I am.” Ernestine choked down her sobs as she clung to him. “You will live because I want you,” she said. “Perhaps you can’t rule the world, beloved, but you can make one woman very happy. You have done it already, and she is grateful.” She went out, and found Philippa waiting anxiously in the passage. “It’s all right, Phil. We have saved him,” she said, holding the girl’s hand tightly in hers as they passed down the steps and across the courtyard. “But what had happened to him?” asked Philippa breathlessly, when they were in the carriage again. “Something has given way in his brain. He will never be able to plan again.” “He can’t plan? Oh, poor Uncle Cyril!” cried Philippa, appalled. “Phil, you must help me to keep it a secret--at any rate until after we are married. I know they will part me from him if they can. Once I am his wife I don’t care what happens. Only his real friends must know of this terrible trouble, such as your father and the Chevalier Goldberg. And we must keep Michael in a good temper. My child, you see why he has come here? His manner in addressing you last night showed that sufficiently. Is there any hope for him? You know how I should rejoice to welcome you as a daughter.” “I would do anything else in the world for you and Uncle Cyril,” burst from Philippa, “but not that. I don’t love him in the least. I don’t even--like him,” she was about to say, but changed it, feebly enough, into--“care for him.”