"Prince, Prince, why will you always damp the enthusiasm of those who would be your friends and adherents? Why this constant tone of depression? These everlasting fears and forebodings? There is no cause for them, Count. We are on the eve of a stroke that will change everything—everything—and foil these coward traitors and restore in all its former strength the Prince's influence. There is no monopoly of craft and guile in these Russians! A clear head, a strong hand, a loyal heart, and a daring sword, can change all. We are not so hopeless but that a clever coup can save our cause and make us once again all-powerful."
The Prince threw up his hands with a gesture of weakness.
"It is too late," he murmured, despondently. "Too late."
"It shall never be too late while I live," she cried, desperately. "It shall never be said that you were beaten by a woman. Force her from the path, by fair means or foul—and forced she shall be—and all the flimsy superstructure of this clumsy plot falls like a shattered dream. Never shall Bulgaria be crushed beneath that woman's heel while I have strength in my right arm, or there remains a knife or a bullet in all the land. I swear it."
She uttered the vengeful words with all the vehement force of her violent temper, and as I looked at her I could see the thoughts of murder lighting her strained, glowing features, and brightly gleaming eyes.
But while they stirred repugnance in me they seemed only to add to the Prince's despondency.
"There has been too much blood shed already," he said, in a tone of rebuke.
"Too much; aye, so much that one woman's life
