What a picture was suggested by these last words! The duke lying dead, Barbara in mourning, and himself red-handed, flying from justice! And yet there seemed no way out of the affair consistent with a soldier's honor. "Listen, Paul, I have the ear of the princess. A word from me as to what is about to happen, and--" "Would you have the duke point at me as the craven who shirked a fight by creeping behind the skirts of the princess, and begging for protection? Anything but that! But Noel, you must not lose the favor of the princess on my account. Let me find some other second." "No, Paul, I were no true friend, if I did not stand by you in this affair. Here comes Baron Ostrova, the duke's secretary, and presumably his second, since he has usually acted as such in Bora's _affaires d'honneur_. What instructions, Paul?" "This evening. At six. Sabres. To the death." And Paul went on smoking as quietly as if a duel were an everyday event with him. CHAPTER III A MENACE FROM THE CZAR In an ante-chamber of the Vistula Palace sat Count Radzivil, premier of Czernova, in company with Marshal Zabern, the Warden of the Charter; and the Charter being the palladium of Czernovese liberty, the custody of that sacred document carried with it a high distinction, second only to that of the premiership. The two ministers were waiting to communicate to the princess the contents of an important despatch, which had just arrived from the Czernovese ambassador at St. Petersburg; for Czernova, be it known, though but a small state, was nevertheless sufficiently wealthy to maintain an embassy at the three courts with which its interests came most in contact, namely, St. Petersburg, Vienna, and Berlin. The only other occupants of the apartment were two silent chamberlains, standing like statues before the folding doors of the audience-chamber, each dressed in white pantaloons and silk stockings, and each decorated with the silk wand of office. Ladislas Zabern was a man of fine soldierly presence, with limbs that seemed carved from oak and soldered with iron. Courage was indelibly stamped upon his face. He was fifty-three years of age, and though his dark hair and moustaches were streaked with gray, he had lost none of the energy of youth. A sabre-cut marked his left cheek, for he had known fighting from early days. There was a legend current among his admirers--and they numbered every man with Polish blood in his veins--that in childhood he had been taken by his father, a patriotic noble, to the sacramental altar, and made to swear that he would be the life-long enemy of Russia. Be that as it may, his fiery youth had been spent in vain attempts to procure the emancipation of Poland from the Russian yoke, and, as a result, he had made acquaintance with that indispensable adjunct to Muscovite civilization, Siberia. Chains and hardships, however, had not soured his nature, as the good-humored twinkle in his eye sufficiently proved.