“Do not reproach yourself, my friend. All that one man could do, you did. I know that well, and I thank you. One last service you shall do, if you are fit for it. You shall ride with us to-night when we take her away. Mishka has told you of the arrangements? That is well. If we get through, you will not return here; that is why I have sent for you now.”
“Not return?” I repeated.
“No,” he answered quietly but decisively. “Once before I begged you to leave us, now I command you to do so; not because I do not value you, but because—she—would have wished it. Wait, hear me out! You have done noble service in a cause that can mean nothing to you, except—”
“Except that it is a cause that the lady I served lived,—and died—for, sir,” I interrupted.
More than once before I had spoken of her to him as the woman we both loved; but now the other words seemed fittest; for not half an hour back I had learned the truth, that, I think, I had known all along,—that she who lay in her coffin in the great drawing-room yonder was, if her rights had been acknowledged, the Grand Duchess Loris of Russia. It was Vassilitzi who told me.
“They were married months ago, in Paris,—before she went to England,” he had said, and for a moment a bitter wave of memory swept over me, though I fought against it. Hadn’t I decided long since that the queen could do no wrong, and therefore the deception she had practised counted for nothing? All that really mattered was that I loved her in spite of all; asked nothing more than to be allowed to serve her.
“You served her under a delusion,” he rejoined with stern sadness. “And now it is no longer possible for you to serve her even so. I cannot discuss the matter with you; I cannot explain it,—I would not if I could. Only this I repeat. I request—command you, to make your way out of this country as soon as possible, and rejoin your friends in England, or America,—where you will. It may mean more to you than you dare hope or imagine. You will have some difficulty probably, though some of the trains are running again now. I think your safest plan will be to ride to Kutno—or if necessary even to Alexandrovo. Here is a passport, permitting you to leave Russia; it is made out in the name you assumed when you returned as ‘William Pennington Gould,’ and is quite in order. And I must ask you, for the sake of our friendship, to accept these”—he took a roll of notes out of the drawer of the writing-table—“and, as a memento,—this. It is the only decoration I am able to confer on a most chivalrous gentleman.”
He held out a little case, open, and I took it with an unsteady hand. It contained a miniature of Anne, set in a rim of diamonds. I looked at it,—and at him,—but I could not speak; my heart was too full.
“There is no need of words, my friend; we understand each other well, you and I,” he continued, rising and placing his hands on my shoulders. “You will do as I wish,—as I entreat—insist—?”
“I would rather remain with you!” I urged. “And fight on, for the cause—”