for the first time something of that commanding personality
which had made this slight, exquisite creature for years one of the
most able and successful of secret negotiators, and a person to be
reckoned with by every foreign minister.

"You do not trust me, Andreas V----. It is natural. You do not love
me. It is possible that it is my fault. But I have sworn to save your
life, and I will do it in your own despite. In order that I may
succeed, I will forget that I am a woman, and I will forget that you
regard me as a criminal. Come here! I will show you into my oratory,
into which not even my confidential maid is ever allowed to
penetrate. Perhaps what you will see there may convince you that I
am neither a traitor nor a Delilah."

With the proud step of an empress, she led the way into the adjoining
room, which was a bedroom sumptuously enriched with everything that
could allure the senses. The very curtains of the bed seemed to
breathe out languorous odors, the walls were hung with ravishing
groups of figures that might have come from a Pompeiian temple, the
dressing-table was rich with gold and gems.

Without pausing for an instant the mistress of the chamber walked
straight across it to a narrow door let into the farther wall, and
secured by a tiny lock like that of a safe.

Drawing a small key from her bosom, the Princess inserted it in the
lock, leaving me to follow in a state of the most intense
expectation.

The apartment in which I found myself was a narrow, white-washed cell
like a prison, lit only by the flames of two tall wax candles which
stood on a table, or rather an altar, at the far end.

Besides the altar, the sole object in the room was a wooden step in
front of it. Over the altar, in accordance with the rule of the Greek
Church, there hung a sacred picture. And below, between the two
candlesticks, there rested two objects, the sight of which fairly
took away my breath.

One was a photograph frame containing a portrait of myself--how
obtained I shall never know. The portrait was framed with
immortelles, the emblems of death, and the artist had given my face
the ghastly pallor and rigidity of the face of a corpse.

The other object on the altar was a small whip of knotted leather
thongs.

Without uttering a word, without even turning her head to see if I
had followed, the Princess Y---- knelt down on the step, stripped
her shoulders with a singular determined gesture, and then, taking
the