The murmur of the restless populace without penetrated to the interior of the palace, and was heard by the wretched duke. Was he to die with the sound of the coronation-mirth ringing in his ears? In the ante-chamber Zabern halted his troop and returned to the side of the princess. "This instrument lacks your Highness's signature," he remarked, presenting her with the warrant for the duke's execution. "On occasions such as this," murmured Barbara, taking the document, "one is tempted to say with Saint Vladimir, 'Who am I that I should shed blood?'" "And yet Vladimir shed a good deal, if history speak truth," responded Zabern, "and therefore became he a saint after Russia's own heart. Your Highness, this is no time for pity. It is a question of your life or the duke." The princess appended a name to the warrant. "I fear," observed Zabern, with a grave smile, "that the captain of the firing-party will question the authority of that signature." The princess looked, and to her surprise saw that she had subscribed herself not "Natalie Lilieski," but "Barbara Tressilian!" She had unwittingly written her mother's maiden name. She did not erase the signature, but proceeded to indite a fresh warrant. She wrote very slowly, pondering as she wrote. What would the real Natalie have thought, said, or done, if she were living now and saw her elder sister signing the death-warrant of her lover? With a sigh she handed the document to the marshal, who immediately returned it with a very strange look. And there, staring at her from the paper, were the self-same words as before--"Barbara Tressilian!" The princess had her superstitious moments, and this was one of them. That she should unintentionally have written the same twice seemed a confirmation of the misgiving that had troubled her for several weeks. "This is the hand of heaven," she murmured, in a tone of awe, and laying down the pen. "Are not the illegitimate always called after their mother? I have written my true name. Marshal," she added in a fearful whisper, "it is Bora who should be on the throne, and I should be the prisoner of the Citadel." "Your Highness, do not talk thus." But Barbara paid little heed. "I am tempted to summon the Diet, even at this late hour, and to reveal to them my secret history, the whole miserable story of my birth." "You will bring ruin on Czernova if you do. What guarantee have you that the cardinal's story is true?" "This," replied Barbara, pointing to her signature on the death-warrant. The marshal shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.