The fourth waltz I danced with the Princess Marie. “I wish to speak to you soberly, seriously, sedately, Marie. May I? Come to the little conservatory and sit out the thirteenth.” “It is an unlucky number.” “No number is unlucky that gives me your presence,” I said lightly. * * * * * In the moonlight we stripped to our shirts. It was nearly as light as day. “This is a mistake,” my granite General said. He was thinking of the risk to his scheme and the ease with which both men could have been arrested. “No, General. This may be reparation,” I answered. Prince Otho was an excellent swordsman. That I knew at once. His wrist was supple and strong as steel. We engaged and fought slowly, cautiously. He had a dangerous, wicked riposte which I guarded twice, more by luck than by skill. Undoubtedly he was my master. I smiled grimly at this. I was sorry, because I wished to speak to Marie. And yet, perhaps, this was a better way. Ah, a scratch! I had turned too late, and the sting in my shoulder told me I was hit. “He is hit! It is enough!” cried General Hartzel. “A mere scratch!” I answered hotly, and we engaged again. It was evident the Prince was waiting for an opening to kill. Two opportunities for serious wounds he passed. Then suddenly he made a quick lunge over my guard. I stepped back quickly; he could not recover his guard; he fell back. Hartzel leaned over him. “That ends it,” he said complacently. “Four weeks, at least, in bed. This is an accident, Baron.” * * * * * The thirteenth dance. The lights were very low. There was the heavy, thick scent of gardenias. The Chinese lanterns swayed curiously. When I pulled myself together they were still. The wound pricked unpleasantly. Marie came. “This is most unorthodox, Your Majesty,” she said mockingly. “Everyone is asking for you.” “Will you sit down, dear?” I spoke very slowly. In truth the pain in my arm was like a red-hot steel needle. She sobered quickly. I could not see very well. I think she went white. She sat down meekly. I could see her big eyes, only her eyes. “Paul!” she breathed. “I am not Paul,” I said. “I am not King. I am only the King’s image, a poor counterfeit.” “Paul!” she said again. Then she checked herself. “He will be here tomorrow. My period of usefulness will be over. He—he was kidnapped. I came—because I was bored, because there was some chance of adventure, because an old man pleaded for his country. Now it is all over—the King comes, the King’s image is wanted no longer.” “Paul, I want you,” she said in a low voice. “I am not Paul. And—and, Marie, there is duty! A nation may groan under the tyranny of Russia unless—You understand, Marie. Our lives cannot always be ministers to our desires. We—we are caught in the toils; we can only obey, we can only do our duty, trusting that somehow it will be found good.” “For us?” she asked. “For your people.” “You say that that is my duty, Paul?”