THE SELECT SERIES
OF
POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT NOVELS.

This Series is issued monthly, and fully illustrated. The following are the latest issues:

No. 22—A HEART'S BITTERNESS, by Bertha M. Clay.
No. 21—THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta.
No. 20—INGOMAR, by Nathan D. Urner.
No. 19—A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison.
No. 18—ROSAMOND, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
No. 17—THE HOUSE OF SECRETS, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis.
No. 16—SIBYL'S INFLUENCE, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
No. 15—THE VIRGINIA HEIRESS, by May Agnes Fleming.
No. 14—FLORENCE FALKLAND, by Burke Brentford.
No. 13—THE BRIDE ELECT, by Annie Ashmore.
No. 12—THE PHANTOM WIFE, by Mrs. M. V. Victor.
No. 11—BADLY MATCHED, by Helen Corwin Pierce.

Yours truly
Prado.

The Far and Near Series—No. 8.

Issued Monthly.
Subscription Price, $3.00 Per Year.

JUNE, 1889.

Entered at the Post-Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter.

A SERVANT OF SATAN.

Romantic Career of PRADO the Assassin.

From Notes Communicated to a Friend on the Eve of His Execution.

An Extraordinary Record of Crime in Many Lands—He was Reared in a Royal Palace.

The Great Riddle which the French Police were Unable to Solve.

By LOUIS BERARD.

NEW YORK:
STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
31 Rose Street.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1889,
By Street & Smith,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

PREFACE.

“Prado was a wonderful fellow,” said Chief Inspector Byrnes, of the New York police, recently, “and for criminal ingenuity and devilishness stands without a peer. I question whether cupidity lay at the foundation of his diabolical work, inclining to the belief that some great wrong worked on his mind and embittered him against the wealthier members of the class of women whom he selected as his victims. Certainly the opening chapters of the story would indicate as much. The fact that this recital of Prado's crimes is made up from notes furnished by the man himself makes it unusually interesting, and the splendidly written and graphically illustrated story will find a place in the scrap-book of every police detective in the country.

“I do not think a career like Prado's in Paris could be possible in this city. Our police system is so different from that of Paris that we can weave a net about criminals much easier. We do not have to unreel miles of red tape before starting out on a hunt for criminals, but are at work with scores of detectives, aided by the entire force, if necessary, before a victim of murder is fairly cold. We seek motives, study the antecedents and acquaintances of the slain, and, following clew after clew, we make it so warm for an assassin that he seeks safety rather than a duplication of crime. Prado, however, was an assassin far above the average of men in intelligence and ingenuity, and gave evidence of having moved in high circles of society, and I should not be surprised if the story will make clear his identity to students of the ‘Almanac de Gotha.’”—New York World.

A SERVANT OF SATAN.

PROLOGUE.

It was at Madrid, in the month of April, 1880, that I first made the acquaintance of the extraordinary man, who, under the pseudonym of “Prado” met his fate beneath the Paris guillotine. I had just driven back into town from witnessing the execution by the “garrote” of the regicide Francisco Otero, and was in the act of stepping from my brougham, when suddenly the crowd assembled on the Puerto del Sol parted as if by magic to give place to a runaway carriage. I had barely time to note the frantic efforts of the coachman to stop the onward course of the frightened horses, when there was a terrible crash, and the victoria was shattered to splinters against one of the heavy posts on the square. The coachman, still clutching hold of the reins, was torn from the box, and dragged some hundred yards farther along the ground, before the horses were stopped and he could be induced to release his hold of the ribbons. To the surprise of all the spectators, he escaped with a few bruises. His master, however—the only other occupant of the carriage—was less fortunate. Hurled by the shock with considerable violence to the pavement, almost at my very feet, he remained unconscious for some minutes. When at length he recovered his senses, and attempted to rise with my assistance, it was found that he had broken his ankle, and was unable to stand upright. Placing him in my trap, I drove him to the address which he gave me—a house in the Calle del Barquillo—and on our arrival there, assisted the door porter and some of the other servants to carry him up stairs to a very handsome suite of apartments on the second floor. On taking my departure, he overwhelmed me with thanks for what he was pleased to call my kindness, and entreated me to do him the favor of calling, handing me at the same time a card bearing the name of Comte Linska de Castillon.

A couple of days later, happening to be in the neighborhood of the Calle del Barquillo, I dropped in to see how he was getting on. He received me with the greatest cordiality, and so interesting was his conversation that it was quite dark before I left the house. It turned out that he, too, had been present at the execution of the wretched Otero, and that he was on his way home when his horses became frightened and bolted. After discussing all the horrible details of the death of the regicide, the conversation took the direction of capital punishment in foreign countries—a theme about which he displayed the most wonderful knowledge.

From the graphic manner in which he described the strange tortures and cruel methods of punishment practiced at the courts of the native princes in India and China, it was evident that he was speaking of scenes which he had witnessed, and not from mere hearsay. He seemed equally well acquainted with the terrors of lynch law in the frontier territories of the United States, and with the military executions of spies and deserters in warfare. In short, it became clear to me that he was a great traveler, and that he was as well acquainted with America and Asia as he was with the ins and outs of almost every capital in Europe. His French, his Spanish, his German, and his English, were all equally without a trace of foreign accent. His manners were perfect, and displayed unmistakable signs of birth and breeding. Although not above the ordinary stature, he was a man of very compact and muscular build. Dressed in the most perfect and quiet taste, his appearance, without being foppish, was one of great chic and elegance. No trace of jewelry was to be seen about his person. His hands and feet were small and well shaped; his mustache was black, as were also his large and luminous eyes. His hair, slightly gray toward the temples, showed traces of age, or, perhaps, of a hard life. But the most remarkable thing about him was his smile, which seemed to light up his whole face, and which was singularly winning and frank. I confess I took a great fancy to the man, who at the time was exceedingly popular in Madrid society. He was to be seen in many of the most exclusive salons, was present at nearly all the ministerial and diplomatic receptions, and apparently enjoyed universal consideration. Our intimacy continued for about a couple of years, during the course of which I had the opportunity of rendering him one or two more slight services. Toward the end of 1882, I was obliged to leave Madrid rather suddenly, being summoned to Torquay by the dangerous illness of my mother, who is an English woman, and I did not return to Spain until several years later, when I found that Comte Linska de Castillon had meanwhile gone under—in a financial sense—and had disappeared from the surface.

It is unnecessary to describe here the horror and consternation with which I learned that “Prado,” the man charged with numerous robberies and with the murder of the demi-mondaine, Marie Aguetant, was no other than my former friend, Comte Linska de Castillon. Of course, I made a point of attending the trial. I confess, however, that I had some difficulty in recognizing in the rather unprepossessing individual in the prisoner's dock the once elegant viveur whom I had known at Madrid. His features had become somewhat bloated and coarse, as if by hard living, his dress was careless and untidy, his hair gray and his eyes heavy. It was only on the rare occasions when he smiled that his face resumed traces of its former appearance. Day after day I sat in court and listened to the evidence against him. The impression which the latter left on my mind was that, however guilty he undoubtedly had been of other crimes—possibly even of murder—he was, nevertheless, innocent of the death of Marie Aguetant, the charge on which he was executed. The crime was too brutal and too coarse in its method to have been perpetrated by his hand. Moreover, the evidence against him in the matter was not direct, but only circumstantial. Neither the jewelry nor the bonds which he was alleged to have stolen from the murdered woman have ever been discovered. Neither has the weapon with which the deed was committed been found, and the only evidence against him was that of two women, both of loose morals, and both of whom considered themselves to have been betrayed by him. The one, Eugenie Forrestier, a well-known femme galante, saw in the trial a means of advertising her charms, which she has succeeded in doing in a most profitable manner. The other, Mauricette Courouneau, the mother of his child, had fallen in love with a young German and was under promise to marry him as soon as ever the trial was completed, and “Prado's head had rolled into the basket of Monsieur de Paris.”

Shortly after the sentence had been pronounced upon the man whom I had known as “Comte Linska de Castillon” I visited him in his prison, and subsequently at his request called several times again to see him. He seemed very calm and collected. Death apparently had no terrors for him, and on one occasion he recalled the curious coincidence that our first meeting had been on our way home from the execution of the regicide Otero. The only thing which he seemed to dread was that his aged father—his one and solitary affection in the world—should learn of his disgrace. In answer to my repeated inquiries as to who his father was he invariably put me off with a smile, exclaiming, “Demain, demain!” (to-morrow). He appeared, however, to be filled with the most intense bitterness against the other members of his family, step-mother, half-brothers and sisters, who, he declared, had been the first cause of his estrangement from his father and of his own ruin.

“YOU WILL FIND BOTH IN THIS SEALED PACKET.”

Although condemned criminals are never informed of the date of their execution until a couple of hours before they are actually led to the scaffold, yet “Prado,” or “Castillon” appeared to have an intuition of the imminence of his death. For two days before it took place, when I was about to take leave, after paying him one of my customary visits, he suddenly exclaimed:

“I may not see you again. It is possible that this may be our last interview. You are the only one of my former friends who has shown me the slightest kindness or sympathy in my trouble. It would be useless to thank you. I am perfectly aware that my whole record must appear repulsive to you, and that your conduct toward me has been prompted by pity more than by any other sentiment. Were you, however, to know my true story you would pity me even more. The statements which I made to M. Guillo, the Judge d'Instruction who examined me, were merely invented on the spur of the moment, for the purpose of showing him that my powers of imagination were, at any rate, as brilliant as his own. No one, not even my lawyer, knows my real name or history. You will find both in this sealed packet. It contains some notes which I have jotted down while in prison, concerning my past career.”

As he said this he placed a bulky parcel in my hand.

“I want you, however,” he continued, “to promise me two things. The first is that you will not open the outer covering thereof until after my execution; the second, that you will make no mention or reference to the name inscribed on the inner envelope until you see the death of its possessor announced in the newspapers. It is the name of my poor old father. He is in failing health and can scarcely live much longer. When he passes away you are at liberty to break the seals and to use the information contained therein in any form you may think proper. The only object I have in now concealing my identity is to spare the old gentleman any unnecessary sorrow and disgrace.”

He uttered these last words rather sadly and paused for a few minutes before proceeding.

“With regard to the remainder of my family,” said he at last, “I am totally indifferent about their feelings in the matter.”

“One word more, my dear Berard,” he continued. “I am anxious that these papers should some day or other be made known to the world. They will convince the public that at any rate I am innocent of the brutal murder for which I am about to suffer death. My crimes have been numerous; they have been committed in many different lands, and I have never hesitated to put people out of the way when I found them to be dangerous to my interests. But whatever I may have done has been accomplished with skill and delicacy. My misdeeds have been those of a man of birth, education, and breeding, whereas the slayer of Marie Aguetant was, as you will find out one of these days, but a mere vulgar criminal of low and coarse instincts, the scum indeed of a Levantine gutter.

“And now good-by my dear Berard. I rely on you to respect the wishes of a man who is about to disappear into Nirwana. You see,” he added with a smile, “I am something of a Buddhist.”

Almost involuntarily I grasped both his hands firmly in mine. I was deeply moved. All the powers of attraction which he had formerly exercised on me at Madrid came again to the surface, and it was he who gently pushed me out of the cell in order to cut short a painful scene.

Two days later one of the most remarkable criminals of the age expiated his numerous crimes on the scaffold in the square in front of the Prison de la Grande Roquette.

Late last night, when alone in my library, I broke the seals of the outer envelope of the parcel which he had confided to me. When I saw the name inscribed on the inner covering I started from my chair. It was a name of worldwide fame, one of the most brilliant in the “Almanac de Gotha,” and familiar in every court in Europe. However, mindful of my promise to the dead, I locked the package away in my safe. My curiosity, however, was not put to a very severe test, for about a week later the papers of every country in Europe announced the death of the statesman and soldier whose name figured on the cover of the parcel of documents.

Without further delay I broke the seals of the inner wrapper. The whole night through and far on into the next day, I sat poring over the sheets of closely written manuscript—the confessions of the man who had been guillotined under the assumed name of “Prado.” They revealed an astounding career of crime and adventure in almost every corner of the globe, and thoroughly impressed me with the conviction that, however innocent he may have been of the murder of Marie Aguetant, yet he fully deserved the penalty which was finally meted out to him. Of scruples or of any notions of morality he had none, and so cold-blooded and repulsive is the cynicism which this servant of Satan at times displays in the notes concerning his life which he placed at my disposal, I have been forced to use considerable discretion in editing them. While careful to reproduce all the facts contained in the manuscript, I have toned down a certain Zola-like realism of expression impossible to render in print, and have shaped the disjointed memoranda and jottings into a consecutive narrative.

One word more before finally introducing the real Prado to the world. However great my desire to accede to the last wish of my former friend, I cannot bring myself to disclose to the general public the real name of the unfortunate family to which he belonged. There are too many innocent members thereof who would be irretrievably injured by its disclosure.

But the pseudonym which I have employed is so transparent, and the history of the great house in question so well known, that all who have any acquaintance of the inner ring of European society will have no difficulty in recognizing its identity.

Louis Berard.

CHAPTER I.

A SECRET MARRIAGE.

Count Frederick von Waldberg, who was tried and guillotined at Paris under the name of Prado, was born at Berlin in 1849 and was named after King Frederick William IV. of Prussia, who, together with Queen Elizabeth, was present at the christening and acted as sponsor. This somewhat exceptional distinction was due to the fact that the child's father, Count Heinrich von Waldberg, was not only one of the favorite aides-de-camp generals of his majesty, but had also been a friend and companion of the monarch from his very boyhood.

Although at the time the general had not yet achieved the great reputation as a statesman which he subsequently attained, yet he was already known throughout Europe as an ambassador of rare skill and diplomacy, and as one of the most influential personages of the Berlin Court. Married in 1847 to a princess of the reigning house of Kipper-Deutmolde, a woman of singular beauty, little Frederick was the first and only offspring of their union. The child was scarcely a year old when the mother died at Potsdam, after only a few days' illness, leaving the whole of her fortune in trust for the boy. The general was inconsolable, and so intense was his grief that for some days it was feared that his mind would give way. The very kindest sympathy was displayed by both the king and his consort, the latter in particular being deeply moved by the motherless condition of little Frederick. During the next three years the child spent much of his time in her majesty's private apartments, both at Berlin and Potsdam, and, herself childless, Queen Elizabeth did her utmost to act the part of a mother to the pretty curly headed boy.

After four years of widowhood the general became convinced that it was not “good for man to be alone,” and cast his eyes about him in search of another wife. Greatly to the disgust of the beauties of the Prussian capital, who were only too ready to surrender their hands and their hearts to the high rank and station of Count von Waldberg, his choice fell on an Italian lady, whose sole recommendation in his eyes was, as he publicly proclaimed to his friends, that she bore certain traces of resemblance to his dead princess.

Several children were born of this second marriage, and, as usual in such cases, poor little Frederick suffered the ordinary fate of a step-child. The new Countess von Waldberg could not bring herself to forgive the boy for being the heir to a large fortune, while her own children had nothing but a meager portion to which they could look forward. Moreover she was intensely jealous of the marked favor and interest which both the king and the queen displayed toward their godson whenever the family came to Berlin. As, however, the general spent the first ten years of his second marriage at the foreign capitals to which he was accredited as ambassador, Frederick but rarely saw his royal friends. His childhood was thoroughly embittered by the repellent attitude of his step-mother and of his half brothers and sisters toward him. His father, it is true, was always kind and affectionate; but engrossed by the cares and duties of his office, he often allowed whole days to pass without seeing his eldest son, whose time was wholly spent in the company of servants, grooms, and other inferiors.

At the age of fifteen he was entered at the School of Cadets at Brandenburg, and while there was frequently detached to act as page of honor at the various court functions at Berlin and Potsdam. He was scarcely eighteen years old when he received his first commission as ensign in a regiment of the foot-guards, Queen Elizabeth making him a present of his first sword on the occasion.

Frederick, in receipt of a handsome allowance from the trustees of his mother's fortune, now entered on a course of the wildest dissipation. The fame of his exploits on several occasions reached the ears of the king, who kindly, but firmly, reproved the lad for his conduct, and urged him to remember what was due to names so honored as those of his father and his dead mother. Nothing, however, seemed to have any effect in checking the career of reckless and riotous extravagance on which he had embarked, and at length, after being subjected to numerous reprimands and sentences of arrest, he was punished by being transferred to a line regiment engaged in frontier duty on the Russian border. His dismay at being thus exiled from the court and capital to the wilds of Prussian Poland was impossible to describe, and he bade farewell to his numerous friends of both sexes as if he had been banished for life to the mines of Siberia. The most painful parting of all was from a pretty little girl, whom he had taken from behind the counter of “Louise's” famous flower shop, and installed as his mistress in elegant apartments near the “Thier Garten.”

Rose Hartmann was a small and captivating blonde, with dark-blue eyes, fringed with long black lashes. The lovers were at that time in the honey-moon of their liaison, and while Frederick was sincerely and deeply attached to the girl, she on her side was chiefly attracted by the luxuries and pleasures which he had placed within her reach. Whereas he was almost heart-broken at the idea of leaving her, she only apprehended in the separation a sudden end to all the advantages of a life of ease and indulgence and a return to her former obscure existence. To make a long story short, she played her cards so well during the last days of the young lieutenant's stay at Berlin, that on the eve of his departure she induced him to contract a secret marriage with her. It is needless to add that this was a fatal step, as far as the future career of Frederick was concerned. But he was scarcely nineteen years old at the time, and in the hands of a clever and designing woman several years his senior. Of course, they adopted every possible measure to prevent their altered relations from becoming known, for in the first place German officers are prohibited, under severe penalties, from marrying without having previously obtained an official authorization from the Minister of War; and secondly, Frederick was perfectly aware of the intense indignation with which both his father and the royal family would regard such a terrible misalliance. Two days after the ceremony Frederick left for his new garrison, promising Rose that he would make speedy arrangements whereby she would be enabled to rejoin him.

In due course he arrived at his destination—a dreary-looking village in the neighborhood of Biala—and was received with considerable coldness by his new colonel and fellow-officers who did not particularly relish the notion that their regiment should be regarded as a kind of penitentiary for offending guardsmen. The commander, in particular, was a thorough martinet, who looked with extreme disfavor on all the mannerisms and dandified airs of the young count. Thoroughly out of sympathy with his uncongenial messmates, Frederick soon began to feel oppressed by the monotony and solitude of his existence, and repeatedly urged Rose by letter and telegram to join him. This, however, she was in no hurry to do, as she naturally preferred the gay life of the capital, with plenty of money to spend and numerous admirers, to the dreariness and discomfort of a Polish village in the middle of winter. At length, however, Frederick's letters grew so pressing that delay was no longer possible, and she started for Biala with a perfect mountain of luggage. On her arrival there she was met by her husband, who was beside himself with joy at seeing her again. Of course, it was more than ever necessary that their true relationship should remain a secret, and accordingly Rose took up her residence under an assumed name at the solitary inn of the village where Frederick was quartered. Every moment that he could spare from his military duties he spent with her, and it is scarcely necessary to state that their apparently questionable relations were soon the talk of the whole place. The person, however, who felt herself the most aggrieved by the presence of Rose in the village was the colonel's wife, who was profoundly indignant that the “woman” of a mere lieutenant should presume to cover herself with costly furs and wear magnificent diamonds, whereas she—good lady—was forced to content herself with cloaks lined with rabbit-skin and a total absence of jewelry. Morning, noon, and night she assailed her lord and master on the subject, and to such a pitch of irritation she had brought him by her vituperations that, when at the end of a week he finally decided to summon Count von Waldberg to his presence, he was in a frame of mind bordering on frenzy.

“Your conduct, sir, is a scandal and a disgrace to the regiment,” was the greeting which he offered to the young lieutenant, as the latter stepped into his room. “You appear to be lost to all sense of decency and shame.”

Frederick, pale to the very lips, stepped rapidly forward and looked his chief defiantly in the face, exclaiming as he did so:

“I am at a loss to understand, colonel, in what manner I have merited such a torrent of abuse.”

“You know perfectly well to what I am alluding,” retorted the colonel. “How dare you bring that infernal woman to this place, and install her right under our very nose here at the inn? I don't intend to have any of these Berlin ways here. If you can't do without her, have the good taste, at least, to keep her at Biala, where there are houses for women of that class.”

With almost superhuman efforts to remain calm, the young officer murmured hoarsely:

“I must insist, sir, on your speaking of the lady——”

“Lady, indeed!” fairly yelled the colonel, who was becoming black in the face with rage; “that vile——”

As he uttered these words he was felled to the ground by a terrific blow in the face from Frederick, who exclaimed as he struck him:

“She is my wife, you scoundrel!”

CHAPTER II.

A SHOCKED FATHER.

The sun was just rising from behind Vesuvius when one of those hideous and awkward-looking cabs which infest the streets of Naples crawled up to the park gates of a handsome villa on the road to Posilipo. Carelessly tossing a five-lire note to the driver, a young man whose travel-stained appearance showed traces of a long journey jumped to the ground and violently rang the bell. Some minutes elapsed before the porter was sufficiently aroused from his sleep to realize the fact that a stranger was waiting for admittance, and when he finally issued forth to unlock the gates, his face bore manifest evidence of the intense disgust with which he regarded the premature disturbance of his ordinarily peaceful slumbers.

“Is this the Count von Waldberg's villa?” inquired the stranger.

“Yes,” replied the porter in a gruff voice. “What of that?”

“I want to speak to him at once. Unlock the gate.”

“Indeed! You want to see his excellency?”

“At once!”

“At this hour? Per Bacco! Who has ever heard of such a thing? You will have to come back later in the day, my young friend—very much later in the day—if you wish to be granted the honor of an audience,” and with that he turned away and was about to leave the stranger standing in the road, when suddenly steps were heard approaching along the gravel path which led up to the villa, and a tall, soldierly figure appeared in view.

“Good morning, Beppo; what brings you out of bed at this unearthly hour of the morning? This is rather unusual, is it not?”

“It is, indeed, Sig. Franz. It is a young fellow outside there who actually insists on seeing his excellency at once.”

On hearing this Franz, who was the general's confidential valet, took a cursory glance at the stranger, and suddenly seizing the pompous porter by the shoulder, caused him to wheel round with such violence as to almost destroy his equilibrium.

“Open, you fool! It is the young count! What do you mean by keeping him waiting out in the road? Are you bereft of your senses?”

Snatching the keys from the hands of the astonished Italian he brushed past him, threw open the gates and admitted Frederick, for it was he.

“Herr Graf, Herr Graf, what an unexpected pleasure is this. How delighted his excellency will be!”

“I don't know so much about that, Franz, but I want to speak to my father at once. Let him know that I am here, and ask him to receive me as soon as possible.”

After conducting Frederick to a room on the first floor of the villa and attending to his wants the old servant left him to notify the general of his son's arrival.

The young man had meanwhile dragged a low arm-chair to the open window, and sat gazing with a tired and troubled expression at the magnificent landscape stretched out before him.

Four days had elapsed since the exciting scene described in the last chapter. The violence of the blow inflicted by Frederick had caused the colonel to fall heavily against the brass corner of a ponderous writing-table, cutting a deep gash across his forehead, and the blood trickled freely from the wound as he lay unconscious on the ground. The sight of the prostrate figure of his commanding officer recalled the young lieutenant to his senses, and he realized in a moment the terrible consequences of his act. Visions of court-martial, life-long incarceration in a fortress, or even death, flashed like lightning through his brain and, rushing from the room, he hastened to his stables. Hastily saddling the fleetest of the three horses which he had brought from Berlin, he galloped at break-neck speed to the nearest point of the frontier, and within an hour after the incident was out of German territory, and for the moment, at any rate, safe from pursuit. Four hours after passing the border line he rode into the Austrian town of Cracow, and alighted at the Hotel de Saxe. Having but little money about him at the moment of his flight, he disposed of his horse to the innkeeper, and with the proceeds of the sale purchased an outfit of civilian clothes in lieu of his uniform, and a ticket to Naples, where his father was spending the winter.

Before his departure for Cracow, Frederick posted a letter to Rose instructing her to lose no time in leaving the neighbourhood of Biala and to proceed to Berlin, where she was to remain until he wrote to her from Naples.

His object in proceeding to the latter place was easy to understand. He knew that the general was the only man who possessed sufficient influence in the highest quarters to venture to intercede on his behalf, and although he was acquainted with his father's strict ideas on all questions pertaining to military discipline, yet he retained a faint hope that parental affection would overpower the former and would induce him to regard, with a certain amount of indulgence, his eldest son's conduct. Moreover, Frederick was at the time in great financial difficulties. The debts which he had contracted before leaving Berlin were enormous. His appeal to the trustees of the fortune left to him by his mother for an increase of his allowance, or, at any rate, for an advance sufficient to stave off the most pressing claims, had been met by a stern refusal, and the “cent per cent. gentry” of the capital proved equally obdurate in declining to loan any further sums on the strength of the inheritance due him at his majority. On the other hand, it was perfectly clear to Frederick that he would be obliged to remain absent from Germany for several years, until the incident with his colonel had blown over. But he could not hope to do this without money—especially now that he was married—and the only person from whom there was the slightest prospect of his obtaining any financial assistance was his father.

He was in no cheerful frame of mind as he thought of all this while awaiting his father's summons. Had the latter already received news of his son's conduct? That was hardly possible. It was too soon. How, then, was he to explain the events of the last ten days to the general, of whom he stood somewhat in awe?

His meditations were interrupted by Franz's return to tell him that General von Waldberg was ready to receive him.

“His excellency would hardly believe me when I told him of the Herr Graff's arrival,” said Franz, with a beaming smile, “but he is much delighted, as I knew he would be.”

Frederick's heart sank as he pictured to himself the grief and anger which the discovery of the true reason of his unexpected visit would cause his father.

His hesitating knock at the general's door was answered by a cheery “Come in;” and hardly had he entered the room when he found himself clasped in his father's arms. General Count von Waldberg was still at that time a remarkably handsome and young-looking man. Tall, and straight as a dart, his appearance was extremely aristocratic; his hair and mustache were tinged with gray, but his bright blue eyes were undimmed by age.

After the first greetings had been exchanged, the general sat down on a couch, and said, laughingly:

“Now, my dear boy, tell me by what trick you have managed to obtain from your new colonel a leave of absence after such a short service in his regiment. I know you of old. What fresh deviltry have you been up to? Come, make a clean breast of it at once, and let us have it over.”

FREDERICK CONFESSES TO HIS FATHER.

“My dear father,” murmured the young man, with downcast eyes, “I am afraid that the confession which I have to make will pain you very much. The fact is, I—I—took French leave.”

“Come, come, that is more serious than I thought,” exclaimed the general, whose genial smile had suddenly given way to a very stern expression. “Surely you are joking. You don't mean to tell me that you are here without the permission of your superiors?”

Frederick bent his head, and did not reply.

“But are you aware that this is nothing less than an act of desertion?” thundered the general, exasperated by his son's silence, and starting to his feet. “You must be bereft of your senses, sir, to dare to tell me that a Count von Waldberg has deserted from his regiment. Speak! Explain. I command you!”

“I was provoked beyond all endurance by my colonel,” replied Frederick, in short, broken sentences. “We quarrelled, and in a moment of blind passion I struck him a blow in the face which felled him to the ground. I was compelled to make my escape in order to avoid a court-martial.”

The general, now as pale as his son, advanced a step toward him, and, laying his hand heavily on the young man's shoulder, said, in a tone of voice which betrayed the most intense emotion:

“Do you mean to say that you actually struck your superior officer! and that, after committing this unpardonable crime, you made matters worse by deserting, like a coward, instead of at least displaying the courage to remain and face the consequences, whatever they might be? Great God, that I should live to see this day?”

Frederick, who by this time thoroughly realized that the only course to adopt lay in throwing himself entirely on his father's mercy, muttered, in a low voice:

“The colonel, who has always displayed the most marked dislike toward me ever since I joined his regiment, summoned me five days ago, to reprimand me concerning my relations with a lady who was staying at the inn of our village—in fact, who had come there on my account.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the general, “I was sure of it. Another of those insane scrapes into which you are always being led by some disreputable cocotte.”

“Stay, father,” interrupted Frederick. “Not a word more, I entreat you. It was just for such a remark that I struck my colonel. I will not hear a word against the woman who is my wife.”

“Your wife! your wife! Do you want me to believe that you have married without my consent—without the permission of the military authorities—without the approval of your family and of your king? Who, then, is the woman whom you were so ashamed to acknowledge?”

“A pure and noble-hearted girl, whose only sin is her humble birth,” retorted Frederick.

“Enough, sir! Tell me her name, and how you came to know her.”

“Her name was Rose Hartmann, and she——Well, she was a shop-girl at Louise's when I first made her acquaintance.”

The general had by this time become perfectly calm, but it was a calm that boded far worse than his former anger.

“Look here, Frederick,” said he, very coldly, “I have full reason to mistrust you now; and before I take any step in this unfortunate matter, I must write to Berlin, and to your regiment, for the purpose of discovering the full extent of your misconduct. You will be good enough to consider yourself as under arrest here. I forbid you to leave your room under any pretext whatever. I will tell your step-mother that you are ill, and can see nobody, not even her, and I shall take good care that all our friends are left in ignorance of your presence here. And now leave me. I want to be alone. I will send for you when I want you.”

Frederick, thoroughly cowed by his father's manner, murmured some words of regret and explanation, but the general pointed toward the door, and he left his presence with a heavy heart.

Returning to the rooms to which Franz had conducted him on his arrival, he gave himself up to the gloomiest forebodings, and spent hours in gazing abstractedly out of the windows. His meals were brought him by Franz, whose feelings can more easily be imagined than described.

On the third day after his interview with his father, one of the Italian servants knocked at the door, and handed him a letter, which bore the Biala postmark, and which evidently had escaped the vigilance of both the general and of Franz. It was from Rose, and its contents agitated him beyond all measure. She wrote him that she had been subjected to the greatest indignity after his flight—in fact, treated like a mere common camp-follower—and had been turned out of the inn and driven from the village by the orders of the colonel. She added that, having but little money, she had not been able to proceed any farther than Biala, where she was now awaiting his instructions and remittances. She concluded by declaring that if after all she had suffered for his sake, he did not at once send a sufficient sum to enable her to leave the place and to return to Berlin, she would put an end to her days, having no intention to continue to live as she was doing now.

Frederick was nearly heart-broken. He had no funds, beyond a few lire notes, and, in his present position, no means of obtaining any except through his father. He therefore immediately wrote a few lines, which he sent to the general by Franz, entreating him to let him have at once a check for a couple of hundred thalers.

The general's reply was a decided refusal, and couched in such terms as to leave no glimmer of hope that he would relent in the matter.

Driven to desperation, Frederick turned over in his mind a hundred different schemes for raising the money he required, but he was forced to acknowledge to himself that each was more hare-brained than the other; and in the bitterness of his heart he ended by cursing the day he was born.

That night, after all the inmates of the villa had retired to rest, they were startled by several pistol-shots, and the sound of a violent scuffle in the general's library, on the ground floor. The general himself and several of the men-servants rushed to the spot from which the noise proceeded, and discovered Frederick, who, in his dressing-gown, stood near a shattered window, with a smoking revolver in his hand.

HE HELD A SMOKING REVOLVER IN HIS HAND.

As they entered the room Frederick fired another shot through the window and shouting, “I have hit one of them, I am sure. I heard a scream!” jumped into the garden and rushed across the lawn and through the shrubbery, followed by the general and the more or less terrified servants. All their endeavors to capture the midnight intruders proved, however, fruitless, and whether wounded or not, the burglars had evidently succeeded in making good their escape.

On returning to the library it was ascertained that the general's desk had been forced open and that a considerable sum of money in gold and notes, together with several valuable bonds and railway shares, had been abstracted therefrom. Frederick related that he had been awakened shortly after midnight by a strange grating sound proceeding from the room immediately beneath his own. That, jumping out of bed, he had quickly put on his dressing-gown, and seizing a loaded revolver, had softly crept down stairs. Peeping through the keyhole he had seen two men who, by the light of a small taper, were ransacking his father's desk. His efforts in the dark to open the door must have evidently disturbed them, for by the time he managed to enter they had reached the window and were in the act of leaping into the gardens when he fired several shots at them in rapid succession. It was at this juncture that his father and the servants had appeared on the scene.

So gratified was the general by the courage and presence of mind displayed by Frederick in attacking the burglars single-handed that he forgot for the moment both the loss of his stolen property and the grave offenses of which the young man had been guilty. Grasping his son's hands he expressed his satisfaction to him in no measured terms, and indeed was on the point of releasing him from any further arrest or confinement to his room. On second thought, however, he decided to await the replies to his letters from Berlin before doing so, especially as he was extremely anxious that none of the visitors to the villa should become aware of Frederick's presence at Naples.

Early next morning Gen. Von Waldberg drove into Naples to inform the chief of police of the robbery committed at his residence and to request him to offer a reward for the capture of the thieves and the recovery of the stolen property. As he rode back to Posilipo he reflected, with feelings of much gratification, on the pluck shown by his son during the night, and determined to write at once an account of the whole occurrence to the king, in the hope that it might induce his majesty to regard with greater leniency the lad's misconduct. He was just in the act of entering his library for this purpose when he happened to catch sight of one of the Italian servants coming down stairs from Frederick's room with a bulky envelope in his hand. On perceiving the general the man attempted to conceal it, but the old count was too quick, and, ordering him into the library, exacted the surrender of the letter.

“Where are you going, and what is this?” demanded he of the frightened Neapolitan. The latter's eyes lowered before his master's stern gaze, and he confessed in faltering tones that the “young count” had told him to go and post the letter immediately and without letting any one know about it.

“You need not trouble yourself any further about the matter,” remarked the general, “Franz will attend to it, and see here, if you breathe a word about this either to Count Frederick or to any one else you will be turned out of the house at an hour's notice. Do you understand?”

“Si eccellenza, si eccellenza,” murmured the badly scared Italian, as with many low bows he backed out of the general's presence.

As soon as the door was closed the old count raised his glasses to his eyes for the purpose of discovering the destination of his son's letter. It was addressed to Rose Hartmann, at Biala, and judging by its bulk certainly contained something besides ordinary note-paper.

ROSE HARTMANN, COUNTESS VON WALDBERG.

Suddenly a terrible suspicion flashed through his mind. He remembered Frederick's urgent appeal for money on the previous day. But no! The idea was too horrible. It was impossible. The boy was certainly a thorough scapegrace, but not that! No, not that! The unhappy father dashed the letter down on the table and began pacing up and down the room in an agony of incertitude and doubt. Could his son be guilty? The solution of the mystery was contained in that envelope. Would he be justified in opening it? The whole honor of the ancient house of Waldberg was at stake. It was absolutely necessary that he, as its chief, should know whether or not one of the principal members thereof was a common thief. If so it was his duty to mercilessly lop off the rotten branch of the family tree. After long hesitation he finally seized the letter, and with one wrench tore open the envelope. As he did so an exclamation of horror and disgust escaped his blanched lips, for several Prussian bank-notes of considerable value, which he immediately recognized as his property, fell at his feet on the carpet.

It is impossible to describe the intense misery of the wretched father when he found that the thief who was being tracked by the Neapolitan police was no other than his first-born. For several hours he sat at his writing-table, his gray head bowed in grief and almost prostrated by this awful discovery. For a long time he was totally unable to decide what was to be done, and, indeed, had Frederick presented himself before him at that time he would have been almost capable of killing him with his own hand in his paroxysm of anger and shame.

Shortly after darkness had set in, Franz entered Frederick's room and handed him a sealed letter addressed in his father's hand. Glancing at its contents the young man uttered a cry of despair and terror, and springing to his feet was rushing toward the door, when Franz quietly placed himself with his back against it, saying:

“His excellency's orders are that the Herr Graf must not leave this room under any pretext until the hour of departure. I have his strict commands to remain with the Herr Graf and to prevent him from communicating with anybody in the house.

The old soldier's lips quivered as he spoke, and his eyes were full of tears. For it cut him to the very heart to see the suffering depicted on the lad's face, and what between his loyalty and devotion to his master and his affection for the young man whom he had carried about in his arms as a child, he was in great distress.

Frederick groaned, and picking up his father's letter read it over once more. It ran as follows:

“You have betrayed and robbed me! You are not only a deserter, but also a thief. I intercepted your letter to the woman you call your wife, and feeling myself justified under the circumstances to open it I found therein the proofs of your crime. You will leave my house to-night forever. The proceeds of your robbery will keep you for some time from want. It will be all that you will have to depend on, for having become an outlaw by your desertion, and your attack on your colonel, the Prussian Government will never permit you to enter into possession of your mother's fortune. You never need hope to see me again, or to hold any further communication with me or mine. You are no longer a child of mine. I solemnly renounce you as my son. May God Almighty keep you from further crime.

“Count H. von Waldberg.”

That night at 10 o'clock Frederick embarked at Naples on a Marseilles-bound steamer, being escorted to the wharf by Franz.

He never saw his father again.

CHAPTER III.

A HORRIBLE PREDICAMENT.

The strains of a beautiful old German melody, rendered by a rich contralto voice, floated through the night air and caused many a passer-by to linger beneath the open windows of a house in the Avenue Friedland whence they proceeded. It was a singularly beautiful woman who was singing, seated at the piano, in the half light of a daintily furnished drawing-room. Dressed in a marvelous composition of white velvet and old lace, with fragrant gardenias nestling in her bosom and in her soft, golden hair, her low bodice displayed to great advantage the marble whiteness and perfect outline of her bust.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” cries a cheery voice from the balcony where Frederick von Waldberg has been enjoying his after-dinner weed. With a light-hearted laugh he flings his half-burnt cigar into the street and steps into the room. Approaching his wife he encircles her slender waist with his arm and draws her curly head upon his shoulder.

“Dare to repeat, now, you perverse little woman, that you are sad. What ails you? Have you not all you can wish for, including a devoted slave of a husband who has given up everything for you, and is only governed by your sweet will?”

“Yes, dear, yes, dear,” murmurs Rose, gently disengaging herself from his embrace, “but you can't think how it pains me to know that it is I who have been the cause of your quarrel with your father—and then the future is so uncertain. We have not very much money left, and how we shall manage to keep up this establishment is more than I can tell.”

“Never mind; leave that to me. I will find the means somehow or other; only don't fret,” replies Frederick, in a low voice. “As long as you continue to love me everything will be all right. You are not yet tired of me, Weibchen, are you?”

She laughs saucily, but there is a queer light in her dark-blue eyes as she seats herself again at the piano and runs her fingers dreamily over the keys.

Three months have elapsed since the burglary at Gen. von Waldberg's Neapolitan residence, and some eight or ten weeks since Count and Countess Frederick von Waldberg have taken up their quarters in Paris. They live recklessly and extravagantly, like children who are intent on sipping all the sweets of the cup of life without giving a moment's thought to the dregs at the bottom thereof, and which they are bound to reach sooner or later.

Frederick's careless and easy-going nature had enabled him to forget in an incredibly short space of time all the tragic scenes through which he passed at Biala and Naples. He is still passionately in love with his wife, whose beauty is the talk of Paris. He has not attempted to enter society, but when the young couple drive in the “Bois” in their well-appointed victoria, or enter a box at one of the fashionable theaters, they are the cynosure of all eyes. Moreover Frederick has picked up many male acquaintances, and the choice fare and exquisite wines which are always to be found at his hospitable board prove nearly as great an attraction as the lovely eyes and matchless elegance of the mistress of the house.

Rose has, outwardly at least, become a perfect femme du monde. She has picked up all the ways and mannerisms of the higher classes with a quickness that astonishes and delights her husband. But it is fortunate that he is unable to fathom the depths of her heart. For it is just as hard, as mercenary and corrupt as of yore, and she often involuntarily yearns for the gutter from which her husband has raised her.

Toward 9 o'clock Frederick called for his coat and hat, and, kissing his wife tenderly, exclaimed:

“Do not wait up for me, little woman, as I shall not be home from the club till about 2 o'clock.”

With that he left the house and strolled down the avenue to one of the well-known cercles de jeu (gambling clubs) of the Boulevards.

Luck, however, was against him for once, and shortly after 11 o'clock, having sustained heavy losses, he left the club and walked rapidly home, in a very bad temper.

Letting himself in with his latch-key he walks softly up stairs and enters the drawing-room where a light is still dimly burning. His footsteps fall noiselessly on the thick carpet, and wishing to surprise Rose, who could hardly have retired for the night at this comparatively early hour, he pulls aside the heavy drapery of tawny plush which screens the door of her “boudoir,” and peeps in. Hardly has he done so than he springs forward with a yell of rage, for there on a low oriental divan he beholds his wife, his beloved Rose, in the arms of his butler.

The terrified servant makes a dash for the nearest door and escapes through the adjoining conservatory. Frederick, scorning to pursue him, turns his attention to Rose. Brutally grasping her arm, he raises her from the ground where she has flung herself on her knees at his feet, and without a word he drags her down stairs, stopping for a moment in the hall below to throw a gorgeous red-brocaded opera-cloak, which hangs there, on the speechless woman's shoulders. Opening the front door, he thrusts her into the street, exclaiming hoarsely as he bangs it behind her:

“That is where you belong.”

For a few minutes Rose stood on the pavement, dazed and trembling, but suddenly recalling to mind the expression of her infuriated husband's eyes as he pushed her down stairs she was seized with terror and fled down the avenue.

She had not gone very far when two men, springing from a dark side street, arrested her wild flight by clutching her arms.

“Where is your police permit?” exclaimed the taller of the two.

Rose stared helplessly at them without replying.

“Why don't you answer?” yelled the other, shaking her violently. “Don't you hear me talking to you? Are you drunk?”

The unfortunate woman draws herself up, and, shaking off the dirty hand of the “Agents-des-Mœurs” (police charged with the control of the women of ill-repute,) replied:

“I do not know what you mean. There is some mistake. I am the Countesse de Waldberg; let me go!”

“Countess indeed! Is that all? We know all about such countesses. They belong in the St. Lazarre Prison when they run round without their ‘livret’(police permit.) Allons! come along! Enough of these airs and graces! A decent woman does not pace the streets at midnight in a ball-dress.”

ROSE ARRESTED BY THE PARIS POLICE.

With a shriek of horror Rose made a sudden dart forward, but has not got far before she is seized by the hair with such force as to throw her on the pavement. Picking her up again, the Agents-des-Mœurs call a passing night cab, and, bundling the now fainting woman into it, order the coachman to drive to the police station.

On arriving at the police station Rose was roughly dragged from the cab by the two Agents des Mœurs and thrust into the “Violon”—a filthy cell which was already crowded with a score or two of drunk and disorderly women. The atmosphere which reigned in the place was indescribably horrible and nauseating; and the shrieks, the yells, and the disgusting songs and discordant cries of its occupants were only interrupted from time to time when the door was opened to give admittance to some fresh samples of the feminine scum of the Paris streets. Such was the pandemonium in which the Countess von Waldberg passed the first night after being driven out of her luxuriously appointed home in the Avenue Friedland.

When at length day began to dawn through the iron grating of the solitary window of the cell, she breathed a sigh of relief. The scene around her was one fit to figure in “Dante's Inferno.” Every imaginable type of woman seemed to be assembled within the circumscribed limits of those four grimy walls, from the demi-mondaine in silks and satins who had been run in for creating a disturbance at Mabille, down to the old and tattered ragpicker who had been arrested for drunkenness; from the bourgeoise who had been discovered in the act of betraying her husband, down to the ordinary street-walker, who had been caught abroad without her police livret. Here and there, too, were a shoplifter, a bonne who had assaulted her mistress, and a market woman who, in a moment of fury, had chewed off her antagonist's nose. Dressed in the most motley of costumes, they lay about on the wooden bench which ran round the cell, or were stretched prostrate on the damp and dirty brick floor.

Amid these surroundings Rose presented a truly strange appearance as she stood up in the cold morning light, with her costly white velvet gown all stained with mud, from which the superb lace flounces had been partly torn by the brutal hands of the men who had arrested her. Her beautiful golden hair lay in tangled masses on her bare shoulders, from which the red opera-cloak had fallen as she rose to her feet. She was very pale and there was a hard and stony look in her sunken eyes.

She had had time to reflect on the events of the previous evening, and thoroughly realized the fact that after what had happened Frederick would refuse to acknowledge her as his wife. It would be, therefore, more than useless to appeal to him to substantiate the statements which she had at first made as to her rank and condition; indeed, matters might be only aggravated by such a course, and she determined to maintain the strictest silence concerning her former life. Her heart, however, was filled to overflowing with bitterness against her husband, to whose conduct she attributed her present horrible predicament. Intense hatred had taken the place of any feelings of affection which she might formerly have possessed for him, and she then and there registered a solemn oath that she would never rest until she had wreaked a terrible vengeance for all she had suffered on his account.

At eight o'clock she was brought into court and charged with having been found plying an immoral trade in the public streets, without having previously obtained the required license from the “Prefecture de Police.” For this offense the magistrate, without much questioning, sentenced her to three months' imprisonment at St. Lazarre. Shortly afterward the police-van, which in French bears the euphonic name of “Panier a Salade” (Salad Basket), drew up at the door of the station-house, and Rose, with most of the women who had spent the night in the same cell with her, was bundled into the dismal conveyance. The latter then rattled off through the streets along which she had last driven reclining lazily on the soft cushions of her victoria, to the well-known prison in the Faubourg St. Denis, within the walls of which even an hour's sojourn is sufficient to brand a woman with infamy for the remainder of her days.

On alighting in the court-yard of St. Lazarre, Rose was taken to the clerk's office, where her name, age, and origin were entered on the prison register. She gave her name as Rose Hartmann, her age as twenty-five, and declared, in response to the inquiries on the subject, that she had no profession and was of German extraction. From thence she was passed on to the hands of “Madame la Fouilleuse,” as the searcher is nicknamed, who made her strip, and, after having searched her clothes and even her hair, bade her put on the prison dress, consisting of coarse linen under-clothes, blue cotton hose, thick shoes, a brown stuff dress, brown woolen cap, and large blue cotton cloth apron.

The prison regulations at St. Lazarre were then and are still very severe. The prisoners have to get up at five o'clock in the morning. They sleep four together in one room, and have no other toilet utensils than small pitchers of water and basins no bigger than a moderate-sized soup plate. This makes their morning bath a rather difficult operation. Their meals, except when they are allowed meat on Sundays, consist of a dish of thin vegetable broth, a piece of brown bread, and fricasseed vegetables. While they are at table, a Sister of the religious order of Marie-Joseph reads aloud to them extracts from some pious book. Ten hours of the long, weary day are spent in doing plain needlework, and they have to be in bed for the night at 7:30 o'clock. At eight o'clock all lights are extinguished throughout the prison, and during the long night no sound is heard in the big pile of buildings but the steps of the Sisters of Marie-Joseph, who are on guard, and who pace the long corridors at fixed intervals to see that there is no talking going on.

It must be acknowledged that all this was a cruel change to Rose, who, at any rate during the previous twelve months, had been accustomed to a life of elegance, refinement, and cruelty.

CHAPTER IV.

THE HAREM.

A fortnight after the events described in the previous chapter the war broke out which cost Napoleon III. his throne, and all the German residents in Paris were forced to take their departure at an exceedingly short notice. Among their number was Count Frederick von Waldberg, who, since the disappearance of Rose, had plunged into the wildest course of dissipation and debauchery, as if with the intention of drowning all memory of the past. The discovery of his wife's infamy had exercised a most disastrous effect on the young man's mind. It had rendered him thoroughly hardened and cynical, and had definitely banished forever any remnant of moral feeling or conscience, which he had until then retained. When he reflected on all the brilliant prospects and future which he had surrendered for Rose's sake, he grew sick at heart, and determined to put to good account the bitter experience which he had acquired. Never again would he allow himself to be softened and influenced by any affaire de cœur, but, on the contrary, women should become subservient to his interests. He would deal with them in the same relentless and cruel manner that Rose had dealt with him. The old life was dead and gone, and he made up his mind to start out on a new career unburdened by any such baggage as scruples or honor.

It was in this frame of mind that he embarked at Marseilles on board an English steamer bound for Alexandria. Being debarred from returning to Germany or Italy, and France having now closed her doors against him, he decided to leave Europe for a time and to try his luck in the Orient.

In due course he arrived at Cairo and took up his residence at Shepheard's well-known hostelry. He could not help being struck by the novelty of the scenes which met his eye on every side, and the ancient capital of Egypt, with its narrow, winding streets; its fierce sunlight and dark shadows, its palaces, gardens, and waving palm trees, appealed to all his artistic instincts.

One afternoon, as he was riding round Gezireh, his attention was attracted to a brougham drawn by two magnificent black horses which had pulled up under one of the grand old sycamore trees that shade the avenue, and near to the kiosk in the Khedival gardens, where a military band was rendering with more vigor than harmony several of the most popular airs from “La Grande Duchesse.” The only occupant of the carriage was a woman dressed in Turkish fashion, but whose “yashmak,” or vail, was of a transparency which enhanced rather than concealed her lovely features. The large, dark, and sensuous eyes which glanced at him between the tulle folds of the vail sent a thrill through his very heart, and he involuntarily checked his horse and stood gazing at the enchanting vision. At this moment a gigantic black eunuch, who was evidently in attendance on the lady and who had been standing on the off side of the carriage, suddenly became aware of the admiring looks cast by the young stranger on his mistress. He rushed up to the carriage window, with stifled oath pulled down the silken blind, and then, turning to the coachman, ordered him to drive on. He then mounted a magnificent barb which was being walked up and down by a gorgeously dressed “sais,” or groom, and galloped after the brougham, casting as he did so a look of such malignance at Frederick that the latter, taken by surprise, did not even retain enough presence of mind to make any attempt to follow the carriage.

For several days in succession Frederick made a point of spending his afternoons in riding round Gezireh in the hope of obtaining another glance at the beautiful Hanem; but she did not put in an appearance, and the young man had almost forgotten the incident, when one morning, while riding along the road which Khedive Ismail, with truly oriental gallantry, had caused to be constructed from Cairo out to the Pyramids for the use of Empress Eugenie, on the occasion of her visit in 1869, he suddenly caught sight of the black horses and brougham coming slowly toward him. There was no one else in view, and the ordinarily watchful eunuch had taken advantage of the solitude of the spot to relax his vigilance and to lag a good way behind. Frederick was therefore enabled to gaze unhindered at the Oriental beauty. He bowed low over his horse's mane, and was delighted to see that not only was his salutation graciously responded to, but that, moreover, the lady, raising one of her small jeweled hands to her “yashmak,” pulled it slightly aside so as to discover to his enraptured eyes a face so perfectly lovely that he was fairly staggered. She smiled enchantingly at him, and, putting the tips of her fingers to her rosy lips, motioned him away with a look full of promise. Frederick would fain have drawn nearer to the carriage, but the coachman suddenly started his horses off at a sharp trot, and there was nothing for him to do but to resume his canter out to the Pyramids and to receive with a smile the angry glances of his friend the eunuch, whom he passed shortly afterward.

Neither the Sphinx nor the Pyramids possessed much attraction for Frederick that day, and his stay out at Gezireh was but a short one. He was in a hurry to get back into town. He was perfectly wild with delight at the idea of his adventure. Who could the beautiful creature be? He had noticed a princess' coronet on the panels of the carriage, and the black horses and glittering liveries of the coachman, footman, and of the two grooms would lead to belief that they belonged to a member of the Khedival family. Moreover, the eunuch in attendance was certainly a person of high rank, a fact which was demonstrated by the ribbon of the Order of the “Osmanieh” which he wore in his button-hole.

Frederick was puzzled to know how all this would end. That the fair lady looked upon him with favor was undeniable.

But he knew enough about the strict rules of an oriental harem to doubt whether he would ever be able to meet her alone, as the eunuch had already noticed his admiration of the lady and would certainly warn his master, the Pasha. However, Frederick determined to go to the bitter end, no matter what the cost might be.

Two days later he was lounging on the terrace of the hotel, lazily watching the throng of Arabs, donkeys, and beggars jostling one another along the Esbekleh street, when his attention was suddenly attracted by a ragged individual, with a very black countenance and a basket of flowers, who was evidently trying to catch his eye. Frederick, leaning over the balustrade, was about to throw a few piasters to the man, when the latter suddenly broke loose from the crowd, and walking up the marble steps, “salaamed” to him in the most approved fashion; then squatting down on the ground in front of him, he extracted a bunch of flowers from his basket. Frederick was about to motion him away, when the man hurriedly thrust the roses into his hands, whispering in a low, guttural voice:

“Letter for you.”

He then “salaamed” again and, arising from the ground, began displaying his wares to some ladies who were sitting under the veranda. Frederick, whose thoughts immediately turned to the lady whom he had met two days before on the road to the Pyramids, repaired at once to his room and, cutting the thread which bound the flowers together, brought to view a small, square envelope without any address. Carefully opening it he extracted therefrom a highly perfumed sheet of pink paper on which the following words were written:

“If you wish to see me again, go to-night between 11 and 12 o'clock to the farther end of the Mouski street and follow the woman who will give you a bunch of lotus flowers. She will bring you to me. Destroy this.”

Frederick dropped the note to the floor in his surprise and delight. His wildest anticipations were surpassed, for in a few hours he would see his “houri” face to face.

THE “MOUSKI” STREET AT CAIRO, EGYPT.

At 11 o'clock that night he wandered up the long Mouski street, which at that hour looked weird and deserted. He took care to keep as much as possible in the more shadowy portions of the thoroughfare, so as not to attract the attention of the few Arabs who, wrapped in their spectral-looking “burnous,” were still to be met with here and there. After about an hour's walk he stopped at the end of the long street and looked about him. Nobody was in sight, and he was just thinking of retracing his steps when a hand was laid on his arm and a vailed woman, without uttering a word, placed a small bunch of lotus flowers in his hand. She then beckoned to him to follow her, saying in a low, musical voice:

“Taala hena” (come this way).

A few steps brought them to a high stone wall, in which a small kind of postern was pierced. Taking hold of his hand she led him under the archway, and, inserting a small key in the lock, she opened the door and pushed him into the garden.

Frederick, for a moment, believed that he had been suddenly transported into fairy-land. He found himself in an immense garden, where groups of feathery palms and dark sycamores made a fitting background for masses of brilliant flowers and shrubs in full bloom. The air was redolent with the perfume of thousands of orange trees and starry jessamine, while the high wall, which looked so bare and grim from without, was on the inside covered with blue passion-flowers and pink aristolochus. Numerous marble fountains sent their silvery jets of spray toward the dark-blue heavens, and a flock of red flamingoes stalked majestically up and down the long stretches of velvety lawn.

In the distance a white alabaster palace gleamed in the glorious Egyptian moonlight, which rendered the scene almost as bright as day; and its cupolas and minarets, all fretted and perforated, looked like some wonderful piece of old lacework.

Frederick followed his silent companion through a dense thicket of rose-bushes, where a narrow path had been cut. He noticed that she was very careful to keep away from the bright light of the moon and that she occasionally stopped to listen. After about ten minutes' walk they reached a side entrance of the palace. The woman, once more taking hold of his hand, led him up six or seven steps and into a narrow passage where a silver hanging-lamp shed a dim light on the tapestried walls. Turning suddenly to the left she lifted a large gold-embroidered drapery which hung before an archway and motioned him inside.

FREDERICK CONDUCTED TO THE PRINCESS' HAREM.

Frederick was in the harem of the famous Princess M.

Emerging from the comparative darkness of the gardens, Frederick was fairly dazzled by the brilliancy of the scene which met his eyes. He found himself in a lofty apartment, the walls of which were entirely covered with silver brocade. White velvet divans ran all around the room, and from the painted ceiling hung a rock-crystal chandelier, lighted by at least a hundred wax candles. Great masses of blooming camellias, azalias, and tuberoses were tastefully arranged in silver vases on tables of transparent jade. The floor was covered with a white velvet carpet richly embroidered with silver, and the windows were hung with fairy-like draperies of silver gauze and point lace.

At the farther end of the apartment was a kind of broad, oriental divan, and there, nestling among a pile of cushions, reclined the jewel of which all the splendors above described formed but the unworthy setting. Princess Louba, a little over twenty-two years of age at the time, was certainly one of the loveliest women of the day. Tall and exquisitely proportioned, her hands and feet were marvelously small and the rich contours of her figure were absolutely perfect. She had one of those dead white complexions, ever so delicately tinted with pink, which remind one of the petal of a tea-rose or the interior of a shell. Her large, languid black eyes were shaded by long and curly eyelashes, and her straight eyebrows almost met over a small, aquiline nose, the sensuous nostrils of which quivered at the slightest emotion. In piquant contrast to her dark eyes, her hair, of a pale golden color, hung down to below her knees. She was dressed in a long “djebba,” or loose robe of white crepe de chine, the semi-transparent folds of which clung to her form as the morning dew clings to a flower which it is loth to conceal.

For several minutes Frederick stood as if transfixed, unable to remove his fevered gaze from the lovely apparition which rendered him blind to all else. He could see nothing but the princess, as she lay there in all her indolent beauty.

The “Muezzin” droning forth his harmonious summons to prayers from the loftiest galleries of the minarets, had but just notified the faithful that it was two hours after midnight, when suddenly one of the curtains was softly drawn aside, and a woman scarcely less beautiful than the princess herself glided into the room.

Her largo violet eyes flashed triumphantly, and a mocking, cruel smile hovered around her red lips as she advanced toward the princess and her lover.

“Enfin! Louba Hanem!” exclaimed she, in French. “At length I have you in my power! Revenge always comes to those who can afford to wait! For months and months you have been the favorite of our lord, the pearl of surpassing value, beside whom all were but as dross, the treasure of his heart and the joy of his life, while I—I—was left far behind—hardly noticed—often repulsed—I, who am as beautiful as you, and who love him with a love of which you are utterly incapable! How often have I besought Allah to grant me my revenge! He has heard my prayer! for within the hour that is now passing away our lord will have slain both your lover and yourself! Even at this very moment you are being watched, and at a sign from me he will be summoned hither to behold with his own eyes the shameful manner in which you betray him with a dog of an unbeliever!”

Princess Louba had meanwhile started to her feet, and stood there in all her glorious beauty, white and trembling with rage and with terror.

“Who is it that will dare to raise his or her hand against me, the daughter of his highness! Who are you but a mere slave—a toy bought by our lord! The pastime of one short hour, thereafter to be flung back into the depths of ignominy from which you were raised by his hand! You shall suffer cruelly for your present insolence. I will cause you to be whipped until every particle of skin has been torn from your body.”

“Will you, indeed, Louba Hanem? I challenge you to try it. You will find that even your royal father will be powerless to save either your lover or yourself.”

With a snake-like motion of her supple body the vindictive creature glided to one of the windows opening out on to the veranda and was about to issue forth on her dangerous errand, when, with one bound, Frederick was alongside of her, and, grasping her firmly by the arm, exclaimed:

“What is it you want? Is it money? If so, you shall have it! If you will only be silent! Speak! What do you require?”

With a look of unutterable scorn, she replied:

“Keep your money. It is revenge that I seek! Your touch defiles me! Let me go, or it will be the worse for you! Are you then so anxious to die a few minutes sooner that you dare to tempt me thus?”

Tearing away her arm from Frederick's grasp, she drew a long stiletto or dagger from her bosom and made a violent lunge at his heart. Frederick, now thoroughly infuriated, and realizing the fact that he had to deal with a desperate and half-crazy woman, wrenched the knife from her and hurled it away among the shrubs in the garden. For one moment she struggled desperately to release herself, but seeing that it was of no avail and that the young man's slender hands held her like a vise, she uttered one loud cry for assistance, which rang through the silence of the night.

“Curse you, be quiet! you she-devil!” hissed Frederick in her ear. “If you utter another sound, I will kill you.”

“IF YOU UTTER ANOTHER SOUND, I WILL KILL YOU.”

Once more the girl attempted to scream, but Frederick's fingers clutched her throat like steel and stifled her voice. For the space of several seconds—they seemed to him so many hours—he maintained his grasp, and when at length he released his hold the slight body of the girl fell with a dull thud to the tessellated floor of the veranda. Instinctively he bent down over her, and suddenly, with a thrill of horror, realized that she was dead.

At the same moment he heard the sound of heavy steps hurrying to the spot where he was, and, forgetting everything except that his life was at stake, he leaped over the alabaster balustrade of the terrace, and fled through the gardens without looking behind him.

Oh, the agony of those minutes! The cold perspiration was streaming from his forehead, and his heart was beating so violently that it nearly took his breath away. In what direction was he to escape? The immense gardens seemed to constitute an interminable labyrinth of gravel paths, winding in and out of the clusters of trees and bushes. Twice he found himself at the foot of the high stone wall, which, however, offered no foothold by which he could ascend to the summit. At one moment he nearly fell into a small lake, which lay half-concealed, buried between moss-covered banks. Like a hunted animal, he was about to retrace his steps, when he saw in the distance a score or so of men, carrying torches, who were running in all directions, shouting loudly as they drew nigh to him. His desperation was such that he thought for one moment of giving himself up to them. But the instinct of self-preservation was too strong, and once more he sped along in the shadow of a tall hedge of arbutus, till suddenly he found his flight again arrested by the wall.

FREDERICK FLEES THROUGH THE GARDENS.

Stay! What was that? A door! Yes, the very door by which he had entered a few hours previously. Trembling from head to foot, he tried the lock. It yielded to his pressure, and with one wild, cat-like spring, he bounded into the dark street which led to the Mouski. Closing the massive oak postern after him, he rushed onward, casting terrified glances behind him from time to time as he ran. But all was still; and the noise of his footsteps was the only sound which disturbed the quiet hour of dawn. Gradually he slackened his speed, and, turning down into a dark side-street, cautiously threaded his way among the maze of narrow passages and by-ways of the Hebrew quarter. At last he arrived at the gate of the Esbekieh Gardens, and a few minutes afterward reached the Hotel Shepheard. Ten minutes later he was seated in his own room, hardly able to realize that he was, for the moment, at any rate, out of danger.

To remain at Cairo was out of the question. This last adventure was likely to involve more serious consequences than any of his previous scrapes. Seizing a time-table, he discovered, to his unspeakable relief, that a steamer bound for Bombay was leaving Suez the very same day. He hurriedly packed up his belongings, and, summoning the porter, informed him that he had been called away on matters of the utmost importance, and ordered his trunks to be conveyed without delay to the railway station.

That afternoon at four o'clock a majestic steamer of the Peninsular and Oriental Company weighed its anchor at Suez, and proceeded down the Red Sea. She carried among the passengers on board Count Frederick von Waldberg, who had been fortunate enough to escape arrest for the murder of M. Pasha's second wife.

CHAPTER V.

MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

Frederick's fellow-passengers on board the mail steamer comprised the usual contingent of Calcutta and Bombay merchants; of judges, collectors, and other members of the Indian Civil Service en route to rejoin their posts on the expiration of their leave of absence, and of a considerable sprinkling of military men, some of whom were on their way to the East for the first time. There were also quite a number of ladies and young girls who had been spending the hot season in England, and who were returning for the winter to their husbands and fathers. Besides these, there were several Parsee and other native traders, who, having been welcomed as princes and nabobs at Paris, and elsewhere in Europe, found it difficult to reconcile themselves again to the contemptuous treatment which even the humblest British subaltern deems it his duty to extend to the “black men.”

For the first three days after leaving Suez, Frederick failed to put in an appearance either at table or on deck, and remained most of the time in the seclusion of his own cabin. His nerves had been rudely shaken by the exciting scenes attending his departure from Cairo, and he felt a cold shiver run down his back when he thought of the terrible fate that would have been his lot had he fallen into the hands of the janizaries and eunuchs of M. le Pasha. With all its veneer of civilization, Egypt was then, and still is to this day, an essentially oriental country. The mysteries of the harem are still as dark and shadowy as in days of yore; and notwithstanding all that may be said to the contrary, neither justice nor police legislation has ever succeeded in penetrating the Zenana. Within its walls, the pasha, or bey, especially if he be wealthy and influential, is absolute master of life and death of the inmates. He is accountable to no one for what goes on in his harem; and the stranger who dares to commit the unpardonable offense of invading its sanctity must be prepared to face either death or the most horrible forms of mutilation and torture.

Of remorse for the death of the pasha's second wife, Frederick felt none. He had strangled her in self-defense; and, although he had no intention of killing her at the time, yet he considered that she fully merited her fate. He was equally indifferent as to what had become of the princess. His enthusiasm had given way to feelings of anger against her for causing him to incur so terrible a danger. It is evident, however, that she must have succeeded in giving some satisfactory explanation to the pasha, both as to the presence of a stranger in her apartments, and as to the death of his second wife, for she is alive to this day, and neither increasing age nor corpulency had had the effect of putting a stop to her adventures, which from time to time furnish a piece of gossip, seasoned highly enough even for the jaded palates of the Cairenes. Her husband, the pasha, expired somewhat suddenly a few years ago, and she has not since remarried.

On the fourth day of the voyage, just as the vessel was steaming past the barren island of Perim, Frederick, who by this time had entirely recovered, made his way on deck, and, with a cigar in his mouth, leaned against the bulwarks, watching signals which were being displayed from the masthead of the fort. He was just about to turn away and to stroll forward for the purpose of inspecting the strange assortment of native deck passengers bound for Aden, when he was accosted by a handsome young Englishman, who requested the favor of a light for his pipe. A conversation sprang up between the two, during the course of which Frederick discovered that his new acquaintance was a wealthy young guardsman, Sir Charles Montgomery by name, who was on his way out to take up a staff appointment at Calcutta. The name of General von Waldberg was not unknown to the baronet, and he therefore had no hesitancy about introducing Frederick not only to his fellow-officers, but also to most of of the other prominent passengers on board. The young count soon became a great favorite, especially with the ladies. Much of his time, however, was spent in the smoking-room on deck, playing cards with Sir Charles, and some four or five of the latter's messmates. During the first two days Frederick lost heavily, which he could ill afford, for, after paying his hotel bill at Cairo, and purchasing his passage for Bombay, he had found that his money was almost exhausted. On the third day, however, his spell of bad luck came to an end, and from that time forth his winnings were considerable. No matter what the game might be, his hand was invariably such as to arouse the envy and admiration of all beholders. Both Sir Charles and two other of the officers lost large sums to him, and at length one night, on rising from the card-table, the baronet was sharply taken to task by one of his fellow-losers, a Captain Clery, who inquired, with some asperity, whether he was sure of “that dused German fellow.”

“What do you mean? What on earth are you driving at, my dear Clery? What should I know more about him than you do yourself? There is no doubt about his being the son of old General von Waldberg, whose name you are just as well acquainted with as I am.”

“That is just what puzzles me,” replied the captain. “How can you explain the fact that a man of his station and military training should be here on board a Bombay-bound steamer, instead of being with the German Army before Paris? There is something very fishy and queer about him.”

“I don't agree with you one bit,” retorted Sir Charles. “I think he is a very nice fellow—remarkably bright and amusing, and exceedingly wide awake and clever.”

“Too clever by half,” muttered Captain Clery, savagely twisting his heavy blonde mustache. “I am going to watch his game. I don't believe he plays fair. It isn't natural that he should win whenever there is a heavy stake on the table. I believe he is simply plucking us like so many blue-necked pigeons.”

Had Frederick obtained any inkling of the purport of Captain Clery's remarks about his extraordinary run of luck, or was it mere coincidence that he lost twenty guineas at ecarte on the following afternoon? Be this as it may, the fact remains that during the rest of the voyage he seized various pretexts for absenting himself from the card-table, and devoted his whole time to a very lovely girl, Florence Fitzpatrick by name, to whom he had been presented by Sir Charles. Her father, who hailed from County Cork, held a high command in the Army of the “Guicowar,” or King of Baroda, and had made the acquaintance of General von Waldberg some years previously at Vienna. The old count had not only treated him with much kindness and consideration, but had also obtained him facilities for attending the annual maneuvers of the Prussian and Austrian Armies. He was therefore delighted to have an opportunity of making some return for the courtesy shown to him by Frederick's father, and warmly pressed the young man to visit him at Baroda.

About a fortnight after landing in India, just as Frederick was beginning to grow heartily sick of Bombay, he received a letter from Colonel Fitzpatrick reminding him of his promise to spend a few weeks at Baroda, and urging him to come up at once so as to be in time for a big tiger-hunt which was about to take place. Accordingly, on the next day, having telegraphed to the colonel to announce his impending arrival, he started on his journey up country.

CHAPTER VI.

FETTERS DIFFICULT TO SEVER.

Baroda is, without exception, one of the most interesting and picturesque cities in India. It is perched on the lofty, precipitous banks of the River Wishwamitra. Large marble staircases lead down to the water's edge, and above them rise thousands of minarets, bell towers, temples, kiosks, and pagodas half screened here and there by masses of dark green foliage.

Frederick met with a very hospitable reception on his arrival at Colonel Fitzpatrick's comfortable bungalow. He could not help being touched by the heartiness of welcome extended to him, and Florence appeared to him more charming and beautiful than ever.

As in duty bound, the colonel immediately took steps to notify the Guicowar of Frederick's presence in the capital, and a few days afterward received an intimation that his highness would be glad to grant Count von Waldberg the honor of an audience. Accordingly, on the appointed day, Frederick, accompanied by Fitzpatrick, drove to the royal palace, and after traversing numerous halls and gorgeous apartments thronged with courtiers, found himself in the presence of the Guicowar, to whom he was introduced with due form and ceremony.

The first moments of the interview were passed almost in silence. Then the Guicowar, addressing Frederick in English, declared that he was happy to receive the son of so illustrious a soldier and statesman as General von Waldberg, and bade him consider himself at home in his dominions, adding that he would do all that lay in his power to render Frederick's sojourn in Baroda as agreeable as possible. The Guicowar wore a red velvet tunic, over which was spread a profusion of magnificent jewels. His turban was adorned with an aigrette of diamonds, among which sparkled the famous “Star of the South.” He was at the time a man of about thirty-five years of age and of tall and commanding stature. His complexion was tolerably clear, and his strongly marked features at once gave a perfect idea of this singular man, who to extreme gentleness in every-day intercourse united the most atrocious cruelty on many other occasions. The origin of the dynasty of the Guicowars is very interesting. Their name, “Guicowar,” of which they are so extremely proud, signifies in the Mahratta language, “Keeper of Cows,” and they are fond of tracing their descent to a family of “Koumbis,” or peasants.

After a time hookhas, with jeweled amber mouthpieces, were brought in, and both the colonel and Frederick, following the example of the Guicowar, began to smoke in true oriental fashion. Meanwhile a number of pretty girls, covered with trinkets and attired in thin chemises, had stepped into the room. They were bayaderes, or dancing girls, who played, sang, and danced for the entertainment of the Guicowar's guests, moving with all the languid voluptuousness peculiar to the East. These privileged individuals are allowed to come and go as they please in the royal palace, as if to make up for the absence of the ladies secluded in their Zenana. When, at the close of the audience, which had lasted about two hours, Frederick at length took leave of his dusky highness, he was thoroughly enraptured with all he had seen. The Court of the Guicowar is the only one in India which has preserved down to the present time the customs of the middle ages in all their primitive splendor, and during his stay at Baroda, Frederick had numerous opportunities of admiring the extreme luxury and lavish magnificence of ceremonies which are not to be witnessed anywhere else in the world.

Frederick soon began to feel as if he were a member of the colonel's family. The old gentleman treated him like a son, and was never tired of introducing him to all his friends and acquaintances. One morning he proposed that they should call together on a Hindoo lady, the widow of a great dignitary, and whose wealth was enormous. Being free of control and of advanced notions, she was fond of frequenting good European society, and would, so the colonel declared, be delighted to make Count von Waldberg's acquaintance. The opportunities of entering the house of a lady of great fortune and high caste in India are exceedingly rare, for the rules of the Zenana are so strict and so full of deeply rooted prejudices that even widows, proverbially forward, seldom dare to break through them. Frederick, therefore, declared in reply that he would be much pleased to avail himself of the colonel's offer.

The widow received them in a magnificently decorated room. Her face was partly vailed by a rose-colored silk scarf, and her dress was literally ablaze with diamonds, rubies, and gold. She was a woman of between forty and fifty years of age, very dark, and with piercing coal-black eyes. When the colonel and his young friend entered, she quickly rose from the divan, and having shaken hands with them both in European fashion, invited them to take seats on either side of her. She began by thanking Colonel Fitzpatrick for having brought Count von Waldberg to see her, and then, turning to the latter, added graciously that she would be “at home” to him whenever he might deign to call for the purpose of cheering her lonely life by his welcome presence. Frederick assured her that he would frequently avail himself of her permission,and the conversation then turned to European topics and to social scandal both at home and abroad, concerning which the widow appeared to know much more than might reasonably have been expected from a Hindoo lady living in the seclusion of a Baroda Zenana.

Frederick could not help noticing the very marked impression that he was producing on the widow. She addressed herself almost exclusively to him, and her piercing eyes hardly ever left his face. She insisted on their staying until nightfall, and when Frederick pleaded some urgent business appointment she prevailed on Frederick to allow the colonel to depart alone and to remain behind, at any rate until it was time for the city gates to close. The heat being intense indoors, the widow shortly afterward made a proposal that they should adjourn to the gardens of her palace, and conducted him along a winding path sheltered from the glare of the sun by the dense foliage of the sycamore trees to a fairy-like kiosk, built on a kind of rocky promontory, which seemed to hang out over the river. A gentle breeze made its way through the closed lattices of the windows, and a pink marble fountain perfumed the atmosphere with its jet of rose-water.

Frederick had entered this charming buen retiro a free man. When he left it he was enthralled by fetters which he would find it difficult to sever.

He had been about four months at Baroda when one morning as he was in the act of mounting his pony to ride over to pay his customary visit to the widow a diminutive black boy stealthily slipped a note into his hand. Hastily turning round Frederick recognized the grinning features of Florence's little page, who, after making a profound salaam, disappeared as fast as his legs would carry him. Putting his horse at a walk the young count opened the letter and read the following words:

“I will be this evening, at dusk, in the wood adjoining our bungalow, near the little temple of Jain. Meet me there. I must speak to you alone and without delay. I have a communication to make to you of such importance that our lives are endangered thereby. Oh, my love, my love! Why are you so cruel?”

With a stifled curse Frederick crushed the note in his hand and thrust it into one of the outside pockets of his jacket. Then, giving his unfortunate pony a vicious dig with his spurs, he started off at a sharp canter, and fifteen minutes later he alighted at the palace of the widow, who, having become insanely jealous, was making his life a perfect burden to him.

On that particular morning she was more than usually fractious and exacting, and it was only by playing the part of an enthusiastic and passionate lover that he could in any way pacify her. When at length he reached home he was in a state of exasperation bordering on frenzy. Flinging himself upon the couch in his room he gave way to a most violent fit of rage. Suddenly remembering Florence's note he put his hand into his pocket, with the object of reading it once more. The letter, however, was gone. It was in vain that he turned all his pockets inside out; the note had disappeared. This caused him a moment of anxiety, but on second thought he remembered that it bore neither signature nor address, and, taking it for granted that it had dropped from his pocket while riding, he dismissed the subject from his mind.

Shortly after sundown he started to walk through the wood to the little temple of Jain where Florence had requested him to meet her. It was a lovely and romantic spot. The small temple, built of delicately chiseled stone forming a kind of open trellis work, was surmounted by nine little carved domes and tiny fretted minarets. All round the building rose half-broken columns, the ruins of a mosque, while huge trees covered the spot with deep shade, and Barbary figs, cactuses and poisonous euphorbias enveloped the ancient stones. Thousands of parrots and humming birds dwelt in the branches of the sycamores and palms and flew off at the slightest sound. The place was very lonely, and as he approached it there was no sound save the babble of a brook whispering among tall rushes and lotus plants to be heard in the quiet evening air.

Florence, who had been sitting on the fragments of the basalt column, rose to her feet as she saw him coming, and advanced toward him with outstretched hands. She had been a very beautiful girl a few months previously, but the brilliant pink color, which was one of her chief charms, had now given place to a sickly pallor. Her cheeks were haggard and drawn and her soft brown eyes had a sad and hunted expression which was very painful to see in one so young and fair.

“Fred,” exclaimed she, as he took her hands in his and bent to kiss her cheek. “I cannot bear this any longer. You promised me long ago that you would talk to my father! Why don't you do so now? The time has come! I have asked you to come here to-day to tell you that soon I shall be unable to conceal my shame any longer. Already now I tremble every time my dear father looks at me, and I have no strength left to carry on this horrible deceit any longer.”

As she said this she leaned her head on her lover's shoulder and sobbed bitterly.

The expression on Frederick's face became very dark, now that her face was hidden against his breast and that she could no longer see him. He bit his lips savagely and his eyes flashed with anger. Here was a pretty state of things. What was he to do? She must be pacified with new promises and induced to wait till he could find means to flee once more before the storm which he seemed to call forth wherever he went. He tried to compose his features and to soften the tones of his voice. Drawing the weeping girl closer to him he murmured, gently:

“Look here, Florence, you must not give way like this! You only hurt yourself and pain me. You know how doubly precious your life is to me now. Do not doubt me! Believe me, I am acting for the best. You shall be my wife long before many days are passed and long before there is any danger of discovery. You are nervous and low-spirited, and exaggerate the difficulties of our situation. I adore you! That ought to satisfy you, together with the knowledge that I will guard you from any misfortune and trouble. Cheer up, darling! Better times are coming. Have patience but a little longer.”

As he said this they both gave a sudden start of terror. Behind them in the thicket they heard the noise of a broken twig and the rustle of a dress. Florence, in an agony of fright, tore herself from his embrace and disappeared in the direction of her father's bungalow, exclaiming as she rushed off:

“God help us! We are discovered!”

Frederick, turning toward the tangled bushes whence the sound had proceeded, found himself face to face with the widow.

The latter presented a truly awful appearance as she advanced toward him. Her black eyes were distended with fury, and her face, from which the vail had fallen, was distorted by a cruel and mocking smile.

“Is that the way you keep your troth to me, you miserable scoundrel?” screamed she, clutching hold of Frederick's arm. “Is that my reward for the love of which I have given you so many proofs? Is that the return for the bounty I have heaped upon you—for all my lavish generosity?”