assion received added strength through
the cunning and intriguing opposition of the queen, for the choice of
the proscribed play was regarded as part of a well-considered plan. It
was like a breath of wind, which, instead of extinguishing the flame,
fans it. Deep within their hearts, lurked the self-extenuating plea
that the queen was not the pure angel she pretended to be.

"I am firmly convinced," said the king, "that Hippocrates conjured the
fatal crystal cup into Nausikaa's hand."

"No, Your Majesty," replied Irma, eagerly, "Hippocrates is a thoroughly
noble man; somewhat of a pedant, indeed, but too good and too wise to
do anything like that."

The king soon left and, after he had gone, Walpurga said:

"Now, Countess, you might open every vein in my body and I couldn't
repeat one word of what you've been saying. I don't understand a word
of it."

"Yes, Walpurga," said Irma, "the king's a very learned man, and we have
just been talking about a book which was read yesterday."

Walpurga was satisfied.

"I had expected to meet the queen here," said Irma, after a while,
passing her hand over her face, as if to change its expression.

"The queen isn't coming to-day," replied Walpurga. "She sent word that
she isn't very well. At other times, she never misses being here when
we bathe the child, and there's nothing more beautiful either, than
such a child in its bath, or right after the bath. It's like a newborn
babe, and splashes and shouts and crows. Won't you stop and see it for
once? It's a real treat."

Irma declined and soon afterward left the room. Silent and alone, the
queen lay in her room. Her heart still trembled with fear of the
consequences of what she had done; no, of what had happened without her
having really desired it. A dagger had been forced into her hand, as if
by invisible fate. She could not, dared not use it; and yet suspicion
filled her soul. Suspicion! The word suddenly seemed as if she had
never heard it before, just as she had in truth never felt what it
meant. Purity and innocence no longer exist. Every joyful word, every
cheerful expression, every smile is equivocal. Every harmless remark
has a new meaning. It were better to die than cherish suspicion. The
blessed gift of fancy which enables its possessor faithfully to realize
to himself, and sympathize with, the actions and thoughts of others,
now became a consuming flame. Specters appeared before her waking eyes
and would not be la