White as the princess's face was it grew whiter still as Ravenna proceeded in a fierce exultant tone,—
"You know the duke's reputation as a beau sabreur. Thirty duels, and never a wound has he received in any one of them; that is his record. In the Czernovese army are twenty thousand men, not one of whom, unless he wish for death, dares face the duke's deadly blade. You yourself have witnessed his feats in the salle d'armes; you have seen him disarm in swift succession the best fencers among your officers.—Zabern, Dorislas, Miroslav! Who can stand before the duke?"
He paused for a moment, and then, pointing to the sun shimmering through the leaves of the linden-trees, he added,—
"Princess, ere that golden orb has set, your English hero will be lying dead upon the turf, slain by the hand of the man whom you would make your husband."
Barbara heard no more. With a cry of "O Paul, Paul,"—a cry in which love and grief were intermingled,—she slid from her seat, and lay as one dead at the feet of the cardinal.
CHAPTER V
ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER
The afternoon was drawing to a close as Paul Woodville and Noel Trevisa made their way to the frontiers of Czernova.
From Slavowitz they had driven in a troika or three-horse car, adopting by preconcerted arrangement a route different from that taken by Bora and his second.
Having put up their vehicle at a roadside hostelry, Trevisa conducted his friend to the place of assignation, the path lying through a series of charming woodland glades, collectively known as the Red Forest.