Loud murmurs arose at Barbara's reluctance to accept Paul as her champion.
"Appoint him, your Highness, appoint him," was the cry.
"Let Captain Woodville slay the duke, and receive the hand of the princess as his reward," cried Zabern. "Have I not said?" he added, addressing the assembly.
The cathedral rang with a shout of applause, a shout that doomed the princely marriage statute to the limbo of obsolete things. Zabern had voiced the sentiments of the Poles. Better an untitled Englishman than Bora.
At that moment the first stroke of twelve chimed from the cathedral clock. Barbara's decision, if given after the hour, would be too late. To his dismay Zabern saw that she was on the point of swooning.
"The word, princess, the word!" he cried, almost savagely.
"Barbara, say the word," pleaded Paul gently.
She looked at him, and was unable to resist the wistful, earnest appeal of his eyes.
"I accept—Captain Woodville—as—my—my champion," she gasped. "Oh! what have I done?" she added in the next moment. And as the twelfth stroke of the clock died away, she swayed helplessly forward and sank unconscious into Paul's arms. He surrendered her light form to the care of her attendant ladies, who immediately bore her away from the choir to the sacristy which had served as her robing-room.
"Duke of Bora," cried Zabern, with an exultant smile, "your last hour has come!"