"Does the princess command?"
"No; your Barbara entreats," she said with a soft pressure of her arm. Who could resist such an appeal as this?
"I do not doubt your ability to overcome the duke, for Zabern has told me of your feat in the salle d'armes; but you forget that duelling is illegal in Czernova. Would you have me send you to the Citadel? Moreover, if you should slay the duke it would become the aim of every Muscovite fanatic to slay you. As it is, I fear you will carry your life in your hands, when men come to learn that you are the cause of the duke's rejection. Czernova is but semi-civilized, and assassination is the favorite political weapon here. I would, Paul, that you would do even as Zabern."
"And what is Zabern's habit?"
"He wears chain-mail beneath his clothing."
"An uncomfortable arrangement, I should say. For my own part I will rely on my right arm and on my good sword. Fear not for me. But, dearest Barbara, will you not unmask, and let me see your face, if only for a moment?"
She shook her head tantalizingly.
"I would if I dared, but who knows what eyes may be watching me at this moment? There are Russian spies at this masquerade, so Zabern assures me. I must not be recognized in this guise. Ah! who comes here?" Paul felt her arm trembling upon his, as there moved slowly along the moonlit terrace a tall and stately figure robed in a monastic habit. His cassock was identical in its shade of gray with the nun's gown worn by Barbara, and like hers, it was marked on each shoulder with a red cross.
Having reached the place where Barbara sat, the monk paused, surveyed her attentively for a moment, and then spoke,—
"May a brother claim a few words from a sister of the same order?"