The princess had her superstitious moments, and this was one of them. That she should unintentionally have written the same twice seemed a confirmation of the misgiving that had troubled her for several weeks.
"This is the hand of heaven," she murmured, in a tone of awe, and laying down the pen. "Are not the illegitimate always called after their mother? I have written my true name. Marshal," she added in a fearful whisper, "it is Bora who should be on the throne, and I should be the prisoner of the Citadel."
"Your Highness, do not talk thus."
But Barbara paid little heed.
"I am tempted to summon the Diet, even at this late hour, and to reveal to them my secret history, the whole miserable story of my birth."
"You will bring ruin on Czernova if you do. What guarantee have you that the cardinal's story is true?"
"This," replied Barbara, pointing to her signature on the death-warrant.
The marshal shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
"And therefore, because you suspect yourself to be of illicit birth, you would tender your diadem to an assassin and a traitor. Then let the Czar himself lay down his power; true, he is the son of the Emperor Paul, but was Paul really the child of Peter III.? Catherine and Soltikoff, the chamberlain, could best answer that question. Princess, you are over-scrupulous. Your title to the throne is founded on a better right than that of the accident of birth. The sovereign rules by the will of the people, and are not the majority on your side? If the princely office were made elective, is there any candidate who would have the least chance of success against yourself? And, vox populi, vox Dei. What other sanction do you require?"
"The sanction of my own conscience. And to-morrow—to-morrow," she murmured in a tone of distress, "after taking the Holy Sacrament I must lay my hand upon the Charter—"