absolutely engrossed, as was Félicia, by her carriage, her clothes, and her prize, and Maimie saw that King Michael was obviously uneasy. Again and again, when the procession paused for a moment before one of the tribunes, or when the carriage turned at the end of the course, he interposed his horse so that the unknown cavalier should not approach Félicia. His first idea had been that the stranger was his vanquished rival, Usk, but it was obvious that the Englishman’s broad shoulders could not possibly be hidden under the black doublet, and he scented a deeper mystery. Presently another stoppage occurred before one of the stands, in which sat the Grand-Duke and Duchess of Schwarzwald-Molzau and the Grand-Duke Ivan Petrovitch. Bouquets were flying fast and furiously, the air was full of roses, jonquils, violets, mimosa; shrieks of laughter arose, now from the carriages and now from the tribune, but King Michael took no part in the fray. In thrusting his horse between Félicia’s carriage and the unknown rider, he had forced the latter close to the Scythian Prince, who was staring at him in astonishment, and presently addressed him in his own language. The reply which reached King Michael’s ear, “An affair of the heart; you won’t give me away?” only deepened his suspicions. Presently he was able to leave Félicia in the safe keeping of his uncle, who asked to be allowed to occupy the fourth seat in the carriage as it moved on again, and he leaned over the railing to the Grand-Duke Ivan. “Who is the black Mephistopheles?” he asked. “You won’t betray him, I presume? Timoleon Malasorte.”