And what love did not the letter breathe for him for whom she wrote it--no gross earthly passion, but rather the pure love of a devoted sister for a brother, of a tender mother who seeks to ward danger from the head of a dearly loved son--that was love as Mariska felt it. And Ráby thought sorrowfully how many anxious hours that letter must have cost her poor little head, ere she could clothe her thoughts in words and achieve the difficult task of reporting faithfully her father's ideas--ideas which must of necessity have been hard for her girlish mind to grasp in their fulness, much more to put on paper. And like a horrible nightmare arose the thought of that other woman who had betrayed her husband, and as if to make herself still more unworthy in his eyes, had flaunted her shamelessness by masquerading in man's attire. And the temptation suddenly arose to procure the deed of separation which the free and easy Protestant marriage laws made only too possible, and forswear the solemn tie that bound him to Fruzsinka. But he put it from him as one more temptation to be resisted, not less powerful because it came from within instead of from without. Poor Mariska, how the aim of her well-meant letter had failed! It was to have just the contrary effect she had intended. After reading it again, Ráby hesitated no longer, but took the documents under his arm, hastened to the palace, sought the Emperor's presence, and said simply, "All that stands written here is false from beginning to end! I beg your Majesty to send me back to Pesth." "Good," said the Emperor, "and if they dare to lay a hand on you, I will come myself and set you free." CHAPTER XXXIX. The Emperor sent Ráby two agents of the secret police, who were told off to accompany him wherever he went; both had full powers to claim admission everywhere, to arrest anyone they desired without respect to rank, and to draw the requisite funds they might need from the public banks. One of them, named Plötzlich, was a famous detective, and never so happy as when he was tracking some notorious criminal to his lair, or dexterously unravelling some-deep-laid plot. His personal courage was everywhere recognised, and he had won high distinction in the performance of his duties in Vienna, where he was generally respected and feared; in fact, Ráby could hardly have had a better man to protect him. However, even Mr. Plötzlich had his limitations, as Ráby found out by the time they were fairly on the road in the diligence. The police-commissioner had never been out of Vienna, and a country journey was a new experience.