recall a man of his name. Or at worst, some distant mission might have been asked for—to the Caucasus^* for instance—away from this unhappy struggle which was wrong in principle and therefore destined to fail.

‘Presently you will find yourself without any interest in life and with no occupation. And you will need something to occupy you, my poor boy. You have acted rashly, I fear.’

Prince Roman murmured, ‘I thought it better.’

His father faltered under his steady gaze.

‘Well, well—perhaps! But as ordonnance officer to the Emperor and in favour with all the Imperial family …’

‘Those people had never been heard of when our house was already illustrious,’ the young man let fall negligently.

This was the sort of remark to which the old prince was sensible.

‘Well—perhaps it is better,’ he conceded at last.

The father and son parted affectionately for the night, but next day Prince Roman seemed to have fallen back into the depths of his indifference. He rode out as usual, and reined in on the knoll from which the day before he had seen a reptile-like convoy of soldiery, bristling with bayonets, crawl over the face of that land which was his. The woman he loved had been his too. Death had robbed him of her. Her loss had been to him a moral shock. It had opened his heart to a greater sorrow, his mind to a vaster thought, his eyes to all the past, and to the existence of another love, fraught with pain, but as mysteriously imperative as that lost one to which he had entrusted his happiness.

That evening he retired earlier than usual and rang for his personal servant.

‘Go and see if there is light yet in the quarters of the master of the horse. If he is still up, ask him to come and speak to me.’

While the servant was absent on this errand, the prince tore up hastily some papers, locked the drawers of his desk and hung a medallion containing the miniature of his wife round his neck, against his breast.

The man the prince had sent for belonged to that past which the death of his love had called to life. He was of a family of small nobles who for generations had been adherents, servants and friends of the Princes S—. He remembered the times before the last partition,^* and had taken part in the struggles of the last hour. He was a typical old Pole of that class, with a great capacity for emotion, for blind enthusiasm; with martial instincts and simple beliefs; and even with the old-time habit of larding his speech with Latin words. And his kindly, shrewd eyes, his ruddy face, his lofty brow and his thick, grey, pendant moustache were also very typical of his kind.

‘Listen, Master Francis,’ the prince said familiarly and without preliminaries. ‘Listen, old friend. I am going to vanish from here quietly. I go where something louder than my grief, and yet something with a voice very like it, calls me. I confide in you alone. You will say what’s necessary when the time comes.’

The old man understood. His extended hands trembled exceedingly. But as soon as he found his voice he thanked God aloud for letting him live long enough to see the descendant of the illustrious family in its youngest generation give an example coram gentibus^* of the love of his country and of valour in the field. He doubted not of his dear prince attaining a place in council and in war worthy of his high birth; he saw already that in fulgore^* of family glory affulget patriœ serenitas.^* At the end of this speech he burst into tears and fell into the prince’s arms.