from her maiden estate?  The world was nothing to her, surely.  It held nothing, it meant nothing, it was nothing.  Her world had been her lover, and he lay dead in his room.  In heaven, he knew that she was innocent, as he was himself, and he would see that she was going to accuse herself that she might save her father.  In heaven, he had forgiven his murderer, and he would understand.  As for the world and what it said, she knew that she must leave it instantly, and go from the confession she was about to make to the convent where she was to die, and whence her spotless soul would soon be wafted away to join her true lover beyond the earth.  There was no reason why she should find it hard to do, and yet it was harder than anything she had ever dreamed of doing.  But she was fighting the deepest and strongest instinct of woman’s nature, and the fight went hard.

She fancied the scene, the court, the grey-haired nobles, the fair and honourable women, the brave young soldiers, the thoughtless courtiers, the whole throng she was about to face, for she meant to speak before them all, and to her own shame.  She was as white as marble, but when she thought of what was coming the blood sprang to her face and tingled in her forehead, and she felt her eyes fall and her proud head bend, as the storm of humiliation descended upon her.  She could hear beforehand the sounds that would follow her words, the sharp, short laugh of jealous women who hated her, the murmur of surprise among the men.  Then the sea of faces would seem to rise and fall before her in waves, the lights would dance, her cheeks would burn like flames, and she would grow dizzy.  That would be the end.  Afterwards she could go out alone.  Perhaps the women would shrink from her, no man would be brave enough to lead her kindly from the room.  Yet all that she would bear, for the mere hope of saving her father.  The worst, by far the worst and hardest to endure, would be something within herself, for which she had neither words nor true understanding, but which was more real than anything she could define, for it was in the very core of her heart and in the secret of her soul, a sort of despairing shame of herself and a desolate longing for something she could never recover.

She closed her tired eyes and pressed her hand heavily upon the stone coping of the parapet.  It was the supreme effort, and when she looked down at Inez again she knew that she should live to the end of the ordeal without wavering.

“I am going down to the throne room,” she said, very quietly and gently.  “You had better go to our apartment, dear, and wait for me there.  I am going to try and save our father’s life—­do not ask me how.  It will not take long to say what I have to say, and then I will come to you.”

Inez had risen now, and was standing beside her, laying a hand upon her arm.

“Let me come, too,” she said.  “I can help you, I am sure I can help you.”