ich
had exploded a bomb in the very Palace itself, and killed old Breidau,
of the King's Council; the Committee of Ten which had burned the
Government House, and had led the mob in the student riots a year or so
before.

Led them, themselves hidden. For none knew their identity. It was said
that they did not even know each other, wearing masks and long cloaks at
their meetings, and being designated by numbers only.

In this dread presence, then, she would find herself that night! For she
would go. There was no way out.

She sent a request to be excused from dinner on the ground of illness,
and was, as a result, visited by her royal mistress at nine o'clock. The
honor was unexpected. Not often did the Archduchess Annunciata so
favor any one. The Countess, lying across her bed in a perfect agony
of apprehension, staggered into her sitting-room and knelt to kiss her
lady's hand.

But the Archduchess, who had come to scoff, believing not at all in the
illness, took one shrewd glance at her, and put her hands behind her.

"It may be, as you say, contagious, Olga," she said. "You would better
go to bed and stay there. I shall send Doctor Wiederman to you."

When she had gone the Countess rang for her maid. She was cool enough
now, and white, with a cruel line about her mouth that Minna knew well.
She went to the door into the corridor, and locked it.

Then she turned on the maid. "I am ready for you, now."

"Madame will retire?"

"You little fool! You know what I am ready for!"

The maid stood still. Her wide, bovine eyes, filled with alarm, watched
the Countess as she moved swiftly across the room to her wardrobe. When
she turned about again, she held in her hand a thin black riding-crop.
Minna's ruddy color faded. She knew the Loscheks, knew their furies.
Strange stories of unbridled passion had oozed from the old ruined
castle where for so long they had held feudal sway over the countryside.

"Madame!" she cried, and fell on her knees. "What have I done? Oh, what
have I done?"

"That is what you will tell me," said the Countess, and brought down the
crop. A livid stripe across the girl's face turned slowly to red.

"I have done nothing, I swear it. Mother of Pity, help me! I have done
nothing."

The crop descended again, this time on one of the great sleeves of her
peasant costume. So thin it was, so brutal the blow, that it cut into
the muslin. Groaning, the girl fell forward on her face. The Countess
co