CHAPTER XVII.
UNMASKED.
In spite of her optimistic view of the situation, Zoe passed a disturbed night, which the shouts and the persistent creaking of the windlass announcing the arrival of the Scythian emissary did not tend to soothe. She was oppressed by the conviction that she ought to confide in Eirene, while at the same time she was resolved to do nothing of the kind. It was unfair, she owned, to receive her confidence and give her none in return, but the risks were too great. Eirene might welcome the disclosure, since it would bridge the infinite gulf she must believe to exist between herself and Maurice, but it might make her all the more determined to sacrifice herself, if she realised how important it was that he should not remain in Scythian hands. And, on the other hand, she might refuse to believe it, and in her pique insist on acting alone, when common action on the part of the three was indispensable. Impatiently Zoe wished that it had been possible to predict what Eirene would do in any given circumstances. It was the uncertainty that made her so difficult to deal with, and Zoe almost regretted that she had not done as Maurice advised, and told her earlier, since things could not well have fallen out worse than they had done. At last, as she tossed and turned on the unyielding divan, she decided on a compromise. She would not tell Eirene before the interview with the Scythian official, lest she should do anything rash, but as soon as they had some idea what was to happen she would make the disclosure.
The Scythian was evidently not inclined to waste time, for the girls had only just breakfasted when a large and imposing letter was brought in by the old woman. In it M. Boris Constantinovitch Kirileff did himself the honour to recall himself to her Royal Highness’s recollection, and craved humbly permission to wait upon her, either in her own apartments or in the guest-room of the monastery.
“Now comes the tug of war!” said Eirene. “We don’t want him up here, do we, Zoe? We will see him in the guest-room, then. I remember him at Pavelsburg. He is in the Imperial Chancellery.”
The old woman had brought a pen and ink, but the only paper available was the back of M. Kirileff’s beautiful un-folded epistle, on which the answer was duly written by Zoe. When it had been despatched, she and Eirene looked at one another rather anxiously. It was undeniable that their appearance was not distinguished. A badly fitting blouse, a home-made skirt, moccasins instead of shoes, and a paucity of hairpins—for none had been obtainable in the village—are drawbacks which only beauty of a very exceptional order can successfully surmount.
“I shouldn’t mind a bit, if it wasn’t that we want to look so particularly dignified,” said Zoe. “Suppose you put on the famous girdle, Eirene. That ought to make an impression.”
“Hasn’t it brought us enough bad luck already?” asked Eirene, with a shudder. “No, it shall stay where it is.”
“Look here, Eirene; don’t do anything rash,” Zoe entreated her. “This man may merely have orders to escort you to Therma, so don’t begin by making a tragic submission.”
“I assure you I shall be altogether the Princess in my dealings with M. Kirileff,” returned Eirene, as the old woman appeared on the threshold and beckoned to them. “I shall resort to brag.”
“You mean bluff,” said Zoe, in a stage whisper, as they descended the stairs. “Shall we see Maurice, I wonder?”