you, who are told of as a man who grew
weary of the love of an Empress, and cast her off as though she were
a tavern wench. That is the first matter. The second is that under the
finding of the Court of Justice----"

"Oh! Augusta," I interrupted, "why stain your lips with those words 'of
justice'!"

"----Under the finding of the Court," she went on, "your fate is left
in my hands. I may kill you or torment your body. Or I may spare you and
raise your head higher than any other in the Empire, aye, and adorn it
with a crown."

"Doubtless you may do any of these things, Augusta, but which of them do
you wish to do?"

"Olaf, notwithstanding all that has gone, I would still do the last. I
speak to you no more of love or tenderness, nor do I pretend that this
is for your sake alone. It is for mine also. My name is smirched, and
only marriage can cover up the stain upon it. Moreover, I am beset by
troubles and by dangers. Those accursed Northmen, who love you so well
and who fight, not like men but like devils, are in league with the
Armenian legions and with Constantine. My generals and my troops fall
away from me. If it were assailed, I am not sure that I could hold this
palace, strong though it be. There's but one man who can make me safe
again, and that man is yourself. The Northmen will do your bidding, and
with you in command of them I fear no attack. You have the honesty, the
wit and the soldier's skill and courage. You must command, or none. Only
this time it must not be as Irene's lover, for that is what they name
you, but as her husband. A priest is waiting within call, and one of
high degree. Within an hour, Olaf, you may be my consort, and within a
year the Emperor of the World. Oh!" she went on with passion, "cannot
you forgive what seem to be my sins when you remember that they were
wrought for love of you?"

"Augusta," I said, "I have small ambition; I am not minded to be an
emperor. But hearken. Put aside this thought of marriage with one so far
beneath you, and let me marry her whom I have chosen, and who has chosen
me. Then once more I'll take command of the Northmen and defend you and
your cause to the last drop of my blood."

Her face hardened.

"It may not be," she said, "not only for those reasons I have told you,
but for another which I grieve to have to tell. Heliodore, daughter of
Magas the Egyptian, is dead.'

"Dead!" I gasped. "Dead!"

"Aye, Olaf, dead. You did not see, and she, being a b