n depend upon you because it is to your
advantage to serve me well," he said dryly. "Also, because if you
didn't--" He left the sentence unfinished but Francois understood; in
that part of the Czar's kingdom where the prince came from, life was
held cheap. Besides, the lad had heard tales from his father--a
garrulous Gascon--of his excellency's temper--those mad outbursts even
when a child. There was a trace of the fierce, or half-insane
temperament of the great Ivan in the uncontrollable Strogareff line, so
the story went. Francois returned to his instrument; his excellency's
look swept beyond. He heard now only the sound of the sea--restless, in
unending tumult. The wind blew colder and he went below.

But not to rest! He was in no mood for that. What then? He hesitated, at
war with himself. "Patience! patience!" What fool advice from Sonia
Turgeinov! He helped himself liberally from a decanter on a Louis Quinze
sideboard in the beautiful _salle a manger_. The soft lights revealed
him, and him only, a solitary figure in that luxurious place--master of
all he surveyed but not master of his own thoughts. He could order his
men, but he could not order that invisible host. They made him their
servant. He took a few steps back and forth; then suddenly encountered
his own image reflected in a mirror.

"Boris, the superb"; "a tartar toreador of hearts"; "Prince of roubles
and kopecs"! So they had jestingly called him in his own warm-cold
capital of the north, or in that merry-holy city of four hundred
churches. His glance now swept toward a distant door. "Faint heart ne'er
won--"

Had he a faint heart? In the past--no! Why, then, now? The passionate
lines of the poets sang in his ears--rhythms to the "little dove", the
"peerless white flower"! He passed a big hand across his brow. His
heart-beats were like the galloping hoofs of a horse, bearing him
whither? Gold of her hair, violet of her eyes! Whither? The raving mad
poets! Wine seemed running in his blood; he moved toward the distant
door.

It was locked--of course! For the moment he had forgotten. Thrusting his
hand into his pocket, he drew out a key and unsteadily fitted it. But
before turning it he stood an instant listening. No sound! Should he
wait until the morrow? Prudence dictated that course; precipitancy,
however, drove him on. Now, as well as ever! Better have an
understanding! She would have to accede to his plans, anyway--and the
sooner, the better. He h