"Ah, Paul!" the lady said, caressingly, "fear not. I am tired of being only a princess! The world sees but the glittering show of royalty, and does not know it for the sham it really is. The trappings, the gorgeous robes that kings and queens assume when they are crowned hide bleeding hearts and sorrowful breasts. I have seen too much of the cares of state—the awful tragedy—the bitter grief. Long since I decided that I would have no more of it. Better a dinner of herbs, where love is, you know. And so Peter and I came here to this quiet spot—the old home of my mother—and took her name. And here we thought to live like simple gentle-folk, till Boris broke rudely into our Arcadia.
"And now, Paul," she continued, looking up at him with the love-light shining in her eyes, "the time has come when you may know all. Forgive me, dear, for the long waiting. But I had to be sure as you will see."
She drew from her bosom a folded paper and placed it in his hand.
Paul opened it, and saw it was a letter. He held it closer, and then, in the white moonlight pouring from that Southern sky—great God!—he saw the writing of his Lady of Long Ago!
And this is what Paul read:
"My Sweet Sister:
"I know that I must leave this beautiful earth. Already I feel beside me, waking as well as sleeping, a mysterious presence, who lays his cold hand upon my naked breast, and claims me for his own. It is Death, my Natalie, that stalks beside me, and that day is not far distant when his icy fingers will close relentlessly upon my quivering heart—and it will beat no more.
"Ah! my little one, God keep thee safe from such griefs as I have borne. But God grant thee the happiness I have also known.
"And now, child, I must talk to thee as to the woman thou wilt be when thy dear eyes read these words—a score of years from now! Thou wilt be a beautiful woman then—and I—a little dust will still remain, perhaps.
"But, listen. My son, the baby Prince—thou wilt watch over him with tender care, I know. And then—for thee the time will pass quickly, while I lie slowly crumbling—before thou knowest it, almost, he will be a man—and crowned.