and somewhere, in a new world, make a fresh start.
Surely, after all, peace was the greatest thing in the world.

Peace! The word attracted her. There were religious houses where one
would be safe enough, refuges high-walled and secure, into which no
alien foot ever penetrated. And, as if to answer the thought, she saw
at that moment across the valley the lights of Etzel, the tower of the
church, with its thirteen bells, the monastery buildings behind it,
and set at its feet, like pilgrims come to pray, the low houses of the
peasants. For the church at Etzel contained a celebrated shrine, none
other than that of Our Lady of the Angels, and here came, from all over
the kingdom, long lines of footsore and weary pilgrims, seeking peace
and sanctity, and some a miracle.

The carriage drove on; Minna, on the box, crossed herself at sight of
the church, and chatted with the driver, a great figure who crowded her
to the very edge of the seat.

"I am glad to be here," she said. "I am sick of grandeur. My home is
in Etzel." She turned and inspected the man beside her. "You are a
newcomer, I think?"

"I have but just come to Etzel."

"Then you cannot tell me about my people." She was disappointed.

"And you," inquired the driver,--"you will stay for a visit?"

"A week only. But better than nothing."

"After that, you return to the city?"

"Yes. Madame the Countess--you would know, if you were
Etzel-born--Madame the Countess is lady-in-waiting to Her Royal
Highness, the Archduchess Annunciata."

"So!" said the driver. But he was not curious, and the broken road
demanded his attention. He was but newly come, so very newly that he did
not know his way, and once made a wrong turning.

The Countess relaxed. She had not been followed. None but themselves had
left the train. She was sure of that. And looking back, she satisfied
herself that no stealthy foot-traveler dogged their slow progress. She
breathed quietly, for the first time.

She slept that night. She had wired ahead of her coming, and the
old caretaker and his wife had opened a few rooms, her boudoir and
dressing-room, and a breakfast-room on the first floor. They had swept
the hall too, and built a fire there, but it had been built for a great
household, and its emptiness chilled her.

At four o'clock in the morning she roused at the ringing of a bell,
telling that masses had already begun at the church. For with the
approach of Lent pilgrimages had greatly i