ot."

"Some one must act, and speedily too, or the resultant mischief cannot
be undone. I appeal to you because you are a woman, and we men are prone
to bungle in these matters."

"But what do you want of me?" wailed the tortured Princess. "Michael
protested against the marriage----"

"I am thinking of Alec's welfare now," said Stampoff gruffly. "You are
his mother, and you and I can save him. In a word, that girl must go,
to-night if possible, to-morrow without fail. The talk of marriage must
be dropped, and revived only when a Serb is the prospective bride."

"You say she must go. What does that imply? It is not in my power to
send her away, even if I would."

"It is, Princess," was the grim answer. "If she loves Alec, she will
save him by leaving him. I am told women do these things occasionally.
Perhaps she is one of the self sacrificing sort. At any rate, she must
be given the chance, and by you. She must go away, and, in going, tell
the King she will never marry him. It is hard. Both will suffer; but, in
the long run Alec will come to see that by no other means can he retain
his Kingdom."

CHAPTER XI

JOAN DECIDES

An odd element of fatality seemed to attach itself to the Byzantine
Saint Peter in the cathedral of Delgratz. Joan nearly lost her life
within a few hours of the time when first she saw that remarkable work
of art, and it was ordained that one of the last clear memories of the
checkered life in Kosnovia should be its round staring eyes, its stiffly
modeled right hand, uplifted, it might be, in reproof or exhortation,
the ornate pastoral staff, and the emblem of the crossed keys that
labeled the artist's intent to portray the chief apostle. Poor Joan had
already conceived a violent dislike of the reputed Giotto. It was no
longing to complete her work that drove her, at the end, to the solemn
cathedral, but the compelling need of confiding in Felix. For it had
come to this: she must fly from Delgratz at once and forever.

It chanced that morning that Alec had taken a holiday. He appeared
unexpectedly at breakfast and sat by Joan's side, and his lover's eyes
had detected a pallor, a certain strained and wistful tension of the
lips, signs of mental storm and stress that she hoped would not be
noticeable.

"Sweetheart," he whispered in quick alarm, "you are not well. You are
feeling this wretched climate. I am minded to throw sentiment aside and
send my mother and you to the New Konak to