had not been those of one to whom he was wholly indifferent, or to whom his words had been repugnant. It seemed as though she would never let him come to her as a lover, yet as though she would never let him free himself from the sway of her fascination; she refused his homage with easy and delicate grace, but she refused so that she showed that the man who had been saved by her in the depths of the Carpathian Pass had her interest and had her pity.
Noting—and for once having compassion for the deadly pain that she had dealt, she smiled on him ; she talked to him of a thousand things with her rich, and graphic eloquence, that charmed the ear like the flowing of music, and often sank to silence that only lent it rarer charm; she sang the chants of Bach, of Pergolesi, of Mozart; she let him stay with her till night had closed over the distant mosques and courts of Constantinople, and she bade him good night, leaning again over the marble, parapet of the terrace, with the moonlight full upon her, as she gave him such a sign of adieu, just so proud, just so gentle, as Mary Stuart might have given to her Warden of the Marches while yet she knew his love and would not yield him hers.
Yet—ere many moments passed—another suc-
