at, at least, is one of her enemies disposed of! That is good
news, splendid news, Herr Wynn. Why did you not tell me that before? 'To
a gracious message an host of tongues bestow,' as our Shakespeare says.
How is it you know so much? Do you also know where she is? I was told
she would be here, three days since; that is why I have waited. And she
has not come! She is still in England?"

"No, she left on Sunday morning. I do not know where she is, but she has
been seen at Ostend with--the Russian Grand Duke Loris."

I hated saying those last words; but I had to say them, for, though I
knew Anne Pendennis was lost to me, I felt a deadly jealousy of this
Russian, to whom, or with whom she had fled; and I meant to find out all
that Von Eckhardt might know about him, and his connection with her.

"The Grand Duke Loris!" he repeated. "She was with him, openly? Does she
think him strong enough to protect her? Or does she mean to die with
him? For he is doomed also. She must know that!"

"What is he to her?"

I think I put the question quietly; though I wanted to take him by the
throat and wring the truth out of him.

"He? He is the cause of all the trouble. He loves her. Yes, I told you
that all good men who have but even seen her, love her; she is the
ideal of womanhood. One loves her, you and I love her; for I see well
that you yourself have fallen under her spell! We love her as we love
the stars, that are so infinitely above us,--so bright, so remote, so
adorable! But he loves her as a man loves a woman; she loves him as a
woman loves a man. And he is worthy of her love! He would give up
everything, his rank, his name, his wealth, willingly, gladly, if she
would be his wife. But she will not, while her country needs her. It is
her influence that has made him what he is,--the avowed friend of the
persecuted people, ground down under the iron heel of the autocracy. Yet
it is through him that she has fallen under suspicion; for the League
will not believe that he is sincere; they will trust no aristocrat."

He babbled on, but I scarcely heeded him. I was beginning to pierce the
veil of mystery, or I thought I was; and I no longer condemned Anne
Pendennis, as, in my heart, I had condemned her, only an hour back. The
web of intrigue and deceit that enshrouded her was not of her spinning;
it was fashioned on the tragic loom of Fate.

She loved this Loris, and he loved her? So be it! I hated him in my
heart; though, even