l offer. Sir
John shall do it for me whose life is at stake."

I was sorry for her fears, and her agitation embarrassed me. Heaven
knew I understood the situation even more clearly than she, and to me
it was formidable, pregnant with peril. But what could I do? I did what
I could to reassure her, which was little enough, and I left her
weeping. The singing-bird had become suddenly conscious of her danger,
and was beating wildly against the bars of her cage. Poor singing-bird!

Princess Alix had taken upon herself the office of nurse to her
brother, and although he refused to acknowledge the necessity of a
nurse, he seemed glad to have her in his room. When I entered early in
the afternoon after tending my other patients, they were talking low
together in German, a tongue with which, as I think I have said, I was
not very familiar. But I caught some words, and I guessed that it was
of home they spoke, and the linden-trees in the avenue before the
castle of Hochburg. The Princess's face wore a sad smile, which strove
to be tender and playful at once, but failed pitifully. And she dropped
the pretence when she faced me.

"Dr. Phillimore, my brother is not so well. He--he has been wandering,"
she said anxiously under her breath.

I had been afraid of the dent in the head. I approached him and felt
his pulse.

"It will not be long, doctor, before we have these scoundrels hanged,"
he said confidently, nodding to me in his grave way. "We have nearly
finished our work."

"Yes," said I, "very nearly."

I did not like his looks. He raised himself in his chair. "'_Den Lieben
langen Tag_,' Alix. Why don't you sing that now? You used to sing it
when you were but a child," he said, relapsing into German. "Sing,
Alix." He stared about as if suddenly remembering something. "If Yvonne
were here, she would sing. Her voice is beautiful--ach, so beautiful!"

There was a moment's silence, and the Princess looked at me,
inquiringly, as it appeared to me. I nodded to her, and she parted her
lips. Sweet and soft and plaintive were the strains of that old-world
song. Ah, how strangely did that slender voice of beauty touch the
heart, while Mademoiselle had sung in vain with all her art and
accomplishment:

Den Lieben langen Tag
Hab ich nur Schmerz und Plag
Und darf am Abend doch nit weine.
Wen ich am Fendersteh,
Und in die Nacht nei seh,
So ganz alleine, so muss ich weine.

Her voice had scarce died away