rms, as I am now;" and he burst into a harsh laugh. "Here's
madness! The King's man-at-arms dumps him down in the King's chair! I
had a thought to live to you, if you understand, as a man writes a poem
to his mistress, to make my life the poem, an unsigned poem that you
would never read, and yet unsigned, unread, would make its creator glad
and fill his days. And here's the poem!" and at that a great cry of
terror leaped from Clementina's lips and held them both aghast.

Wogan had risen from his seat; with a violent gesture he had thrown back
his cloak, and his coat beneath was stained and dark with blood.
Clementina stood opposite to him, all her quiet and her calmness gone.
There was no longer any mystery in her eyes. Her bosom rose and fell;
she pointed a trembling hand towards his breast.

"You are hurt. Again for love of me you are hurt."

"It is not my wound," he answered. "It is blood I spilt for you;" he
took a step towards her, and in a second she was between his arms,
sobbing with all the violence of passion which she had so long
restrained. Wogan was wrung by it. That she should weep at all was a
thought strange to him; that he should cause the tears was a sorrow
which tortured him. He touched her hair with his lips, he took her by
the arms and would have set her apart; but she clung to him, hiding her
face, and the sobs shook her. Her breast was strained against him, he
felt the beating of her heart, a fever ran through all his blood. And as
he held her close, a queer inconsequential thought came into his mind.
It shocked him, and he suddenly held her off.

"The blood upon my coat is wet," he cried. The odium, the scandal of a
flight which would make her name a byword from London to Budapest, that
he could envisage; but that this blood upon his coat should stain the
dress she wore--no! He saw indeed that the bodice was smeared a dark
red.

"See, the blood stains you!" he cried.

"Why, then, I share it," she answered with a ringing voice of pride. "I
share it with you;" and she smiled through her tears and a glowing blush
brightened upon her face. She stood before him, erect and beautiful.
Through Wogan's mind there tripped a procession of delicate ladies who
would swoon gracefully at the sight of a pricked finger.

"That's John Sobieski speaking," he exclaimed, and with an emphasis of
despair, "Poland's King! But I was mad! Indeed, I blame myself."

"Blame!" she cried passionately, her whole nature r