think."

"You have served Austria well today, Countess Strahni. You can serve her
again if you can prevent this Herr Renwick from communicating with Sir
Herbert Southgate.... This is no concern of England's."

"I will do what I can, Sire. But the matter, it seemed, was of grave
importance to Herr Renwick. He is an able diplomat and most
intelligent."

The Emperor regarded her almost wistfully.

"It would be a pity," he said, "if Herr Renwick should be discredited at
the Austrian court----"

"It would ruin him, Sire," said Marishka apprehensively; "if he tells
what he knows, he would only be doing his duty."

"He must not tell, child," said the Emperor gravely. "This is Austria's
secret and her sorrow. You realize that, do you not?"

Marishka bowed her head, painfully.

"Yes, Sire."

"You will promise me to do what you can?"

She looked into the face of this tired old man and a great pity for him
swept over her.

"I will, Sire. I will ask him not to tell--demand it of him even if----"

She paused and hid her face in her hands, unable to say more, trying to
hide the true nature of the sacrifice he was asking of her.

The Emperor understood and laid a kindly hand upon her shoulder.

"I understand, my daughter. I pray that no bitterness may come between
you, on account of this. Responsibility comes to you early, and yet you
cannot--must not shirk it."

"And if he refuses----?" she pleaded.

The wrinkled face broke into a smile, the gray eyes were bright in
admiration.

"I am sure," he said gallantly, "that Herr Renwick could refuse you
nothing. Were I younger----" He paused with a sigh and smiled again. "I
am not sure even now that I am not a trifle jealous of this discreet
Englishman of yours." And, then, aware of her intense embarrassment,
"But I am sure that you will succeed."

"I shall try, Sire," she murmured.

And still he seemed loath to let her go, walking toward the window where
he stood in the sunlight looking down upon the lovely gardens beneath
him.

"Perhaps you did not know, Countess, that this visit to the roses of
Konopisht has caused us some concern here in Vienna. Berchtold, who went
yesterday to Konopisht, will, of course, discover nothing. The Duchess
of Hohenberg is a very clever woman. You know her as a friend. If her
loyalty to her friends is as sincere as her ambitions for her children,
then you can surely have no cause for complaint. Friendship begets
friendship, but those