ing over the carriage door and talking to her.

"How you tremble, Leone," he said. "Your face is white and your eyes all
fire!"

"The spell is still on me," she answered. "When I have thrown my whole
soul into anything, I lose my own identity for many hours. I wish," she
continued, "that I did not so thoroughly enter into those characters. I
hardly realize this moment whether I am Anne Boleyn, the unhappy wife of
bluff King Hal, or whether I am Leone, the singer."

"I know which you are," he said, his eyes seeking hers with a wistful
look. "All King Hal's wives put together are not worth your little
finger, Leone. See how the stars are shining. I have something to say to
you. May I drive with you as far as Highgate Hill?"

The beautiful face, all pale with passion, looked into his.

"It is against our compact," she said; "but you may if you wish."

The silent stars looked down in pity as he took his place by her side.

"Leone," he said, "I want to ask you something. A crisis is come in our
lives; my wife, who was told about that day on the river, has asked me
to give up your acquaintance."

A low cry came from the beautiful lips, and the face of the fairest
woman in England grew deadly pale.

"To give me up," she murmured; "and you, Lord Chandos, what have you
said?"

"I said 'No,' a thousand times over, Leone; our friendship is a good and
pure one; I would not give it up for any caprice in the world."

A great, tearless sob came from her pale lips.

"God bless you a thousand times!" she said. "So you would not give me
up, and you told them so?"

"Yes; I refused to do anything of the kind," he replied; "why should I,
Leone? They parted us once by stratagem, by intrigue, by working on all
that was weakest in my character; now we are but friends, simply honest
friends; who shall part us?"

She clasped his hand for an instant in her own.

"So you will not give me up again, Lance?" she said.

"No, I will die first, Leone. There is one thing more I have to say. I
said that I would go to Berlin, and I have asked my wife to go with me;
she has refused, and I have said that I would go alone. Tell me what you
think?"

"I cannot--I think nothing; perhaps--oh, Heaven help me!--perhaps as
your wife has told you she will not go with you, your duty is to stay
with her."

"My duty," he repeated; "who shall say what a man's duty is? Do you
think I have no duty toward you?"

"Your first thought should be--must be