.

She awoke in a large room with walls of panelled wood, and a groined
ceiling. She lay upon a huge bed, raised high above the floor, over the
head of which was a faded yellow silken hanging. Her surroundings
puzzled her, but she seemed to have no desire to learn the meaning of it
all, lying as one barely alive, gazing half conscious toward the narrow
Gothic window near by, through which she had a glimpse of mountains and
blue sky. But the sunlight which fell in patches upon the Turkey rug
dazzled her aching eyes, and she closed them painfully. She felt
wretchedly ill. Her throat was parched, and her body was so weak that
even to move her hand had been an effort. She slept again, woke and
slept again, aware now, even in her stupor, of someone moving near her
in the room. At last with all the will-power left at her command, she
opened wide her eyes and raised herself upon an elbow. It was night, but
lamps upon two tables shed a generous glow.

As she moved, a figure that had sat near the foot of the bed, rose and
came toward her. It was a very old woman with a wrinkled face and the
inturned lips of the toothless. But her face was kindly, and her voice
when she spoke had in it a note of commiseration.

"The Excellency is feeling stronger?" she asked.

"I--I do not know," said Marishka painfully struggling to make her lips
enunciate. "I--I still feel ill. What is this place?"

"Schloss Szolnok, Excellency, in the Carpathians." She laid her rough
hand over Marishka's. "You have some fever. I will get medicine."

"A--a glass of water----"

"At once." The woman moved away into the shadows and Marishka tried to
focus her eyes upon the objects in the room--large chests of drawers,
and tables, a cheval glass, a _prie-dieu_, a carved escritoire with
ormolu mountings, a French dressing table, portraits let into the
panelling, massive oaken chairs, well upholstered--a room of some
grandeur. Schloss Szolnok? What mattered it where she was? Death at
Schloss Szolnok could be no worse than death elsewhere. Weakness
overpowered her, and she sank back into her pillow, aware of her
throbbing temples and a terrible pain that racked her breast. Death.
Hugh, too. He was calling to her. She would come. Hugh! With his name
upon her lips she sank again into unconsciousness.

For weeks, the very weeks that Hugh Renwick lay in the Landes Hospital,
Marishka lay upon the tall bed in the great room at Schloss Szolnok,
struggling slowly bac