his ring upon her betrothal ringer; he had given it her on her birthday, without any special ceremony, and placed it where she wore it, himself.
"If you were a conscript!" she said, reproachfully.
"Heaven forbid! For one thing, at least, delicate health has its use. A month of barrack life would kill me."
"And our countrymen who bivouac in all weathers, that a tyrant—"
"Hush!" he cried, and glanced anxiously round. Then he added: "You are mad. You, the daughter of the Emperor's Prefect! At any moment you may ruin yourself—"
"I care not."
"And your father and all the rest."
"True. I wish father had never accepted this post under the new government. It makes him seem an accessory."
"On the contrary, it enables him to act as a go-between."
"That also is true. With your calm judgment, Eloris, you see many things more correctly than I."
The young man smiled approval. "Always, then, let yourself be advised by me," he answered. "I know what is best for us both."
She pouted prettily. "'Always' is a very solemn word," she said. "'Almost always' must suffice you."
"Of course," he retorted, "I must leave you the privilege of an occasional mistake." Then they lapsed into silence, each thinking, she of him, he of other things, till a knock at the summer-house door called them back to the needs of the moment.
And the need of that moment was suddenly great. A servant stood in the quiet of the summer-house, holding out an official missive marked "Urgent"—or rather, as men wrote in that day: "Haste! Haste!"
The young man took it; his fingers trembled, for the times were evil. An ashen pallor overspread his features as he hurriedly scanned the contents. Unable to speak, he extended the paper to his cousin.
It contained the nomination of Floris van der Hoist as page of honor to his Majesty the Emperor, to accompany him on his Russian campaign.
The two stared at each other aghast. It was some moments before the young man could frame his trembling lips to form words.
"The other poor wretches were selected a couple of months ago," he stammered at last. "Who—who—can have—"
"An enemy," she answered, dully. She took up the paper. "It is signed by the military commander," she said. "It ought to have passed through the Prefect's hands."
He started up with a scream of rage and fear. "I can't go," he cried; "I can't do it. It will kill me. My God! it means death."
"Dear Floris, they will take care of the hostages."
"Yes, call them by their right name. You are bold, Agnes. He drags these victims, as all know, behind his chariot, that they may answer for their well-born relations' good faith with their innocent lives. I can't go, Agnes; I can't. Ask the doctors. It will kill me! Oh, my God!" The sweat stood out on his forehead. A drop ran down to his eyelid. He wiped it away with his sleeve.
"Hush!" she said. "Is there no escape?" She still held the document. "It says that you must set out, at once, within six hours, so as to catch up those starting to-morrow from Arnheim. The Emperor leaves Paris on the 12th. You meet him on the Rhine."
"Oh, spare me the details!" he cried, wildly. "I—I—"
"Possibly my father might help us."
Again he screamed aloud. "Not a word to your father! It were my ruin. You see, this whole plan has been executed outside, against, him. As soon as he hears of the matter he must carry out the law or imperil his own head."
"He will not do that," she replied.
The young man paced up and down the floor of the summer-house, like a wild beast endeavoring to escape. "I must fly," he breathed, faintly. "I must fly."
"Impossible. Who can fly? Where to?"
"To England."
"That means beggary."
"My money is there. The greater part of it. I am not such a fool as your father thinks."
"But you cannot fly. Impossible to get away."
