“News of that came to the Emperor.  My husband was tried, and, the case being well known to the public, it was necessary to convict him for the sake of example.  Then, on the day set for his beheading, the Emperor reprieved him.  The hour for the execution passed, and, being now free for the time, he fled the country.  He went to Africa, and there he so disgraced the state that bore him that of late times I hear he has been sent for to come back to Austria.  Even yet the Emperor may suspend the reprieve and send him to the block for his ancient crime.  If he had a thousand heads, he could not atone for the worse crimes he has done!

“But of him, and of his end, I know nothing.  So, now, you see, I was and am wed, and yet am not wed, and never was.  I do not know what I am, nor who I am.  After all, I can not tell you who I am, or what I am, because I myself do not know.

“It was now no longer safe for me in my own country.  They would not let me go to my father any more.  As for him, he went on with his studies, some part of his mind being bright and clear.  They did not wish him about the court now.  All these matters were to be hushed up.  The court of England began to take cognizance of these things.  Our government was scandalized.  They sent my father, on pretext of scientific errands, into one country and another—­to Sweden, to England, to Africa, at last to America.  Thus it happened that you met him.  You must both have been very near to meeting me in Montreal.  It was fate, as we of Hungary would say.

“As for me, I was no mere hare-brained radical.  I did not go to Russia, did not join the revolutionary circles of Paris, did not yet seek out Prussia.  That is folly.  My father was right.  It must be the years, it must be the good heritage, it must be the good environment, it must be even opportunity for all, which alone can produce good human beings!  In short, believe me, a victim, the hope of the world is in a real democracy.  Slowly, gradually, I was coming to believe that.”

She paused a moment.  “Then, one time, Monsieur,—­I met you, here in this very room!  God pity me!  You were the first man I had ever seen.  God pity me!—­I believe I—­loved you—­that night, that very first night!  We are friends.  We are brave.  You are man and gentleman, so I may say that, now.  I am no longer woman.  I am but sacrifice.

“Opportunity must exist, open and free for all the world,” she went on, not looking at me more than I could now at her.  “I have set my life to prove this thing.  When I came here to this America—­out of pique, out of a love of adventure, out of sheer daring and exultation in imposture—­then I saw why I was born, for what purpose!  It was to do such work as I might to prove the theory of my father, and to justify the life of my mother.  For that thing I was born.  For that thing I have been damned on this earth; I may be damned in the life to come, unless I can make some great atonement.  For these I suffer and shall always suffer.  But what of that?  There must always be a sacrifice.”