“The world well lost!” she cried.

Her reckless mood possessed him also.  They breathed that air which intoxicates, before it turns heavy with calamity and stifles the whole being; by which none ever thrived, though many have sought nourishment in daring draughts of it.

“The world well lost!” he repeated; and his lips sought hers.

Her determined patience had triumphed.  Hour by hour, by being that to his plans, to his work of life, which no one else could be, she had won back what she had lost when the Rand had emptied into her lap its millions, at the bidding of her material soul.  With infinite tact and skill she had accomplished her will.  The man she had lost was hers again.  What it must mean, what it must do, what price must be paid for this which her spirit willed had never yet been estimated.  But her will had been supreme, and she took all out of the moment which was possible to mortal pleasure.

Like the Columbus, however, who plants his flag upon the cliffs of a new land, and then, leaving his vast prize unharvested, retreats upon the sea by which he came, so Ian suddenly realized that here was no abiding-place for his love.  It was no home for his faith, for those joys which the sane take gladly, when it is right to take them, and the mad long for and die for when their madness becomes unbearable.

A cloud suddenly passed over him, darkened his eyes, made his bones like water.  For, whatever might come, he knew in his heart of hearts that the “old paths” were the only paths which he could tread in peace—­or tread at all without the ruin of all he had slowly builded.

Jasmine, however, did not see his look or realize the sudden physical change which passed over him, leaving him cold and numbed; for a servant now entered with a note.

Seeing the handwriting on the envelope, with an exclamation of excitement and surprise, Jasmine tore the letter open.  One glance was sufficient.

“Moravia is ours—­ours, Ian!” she cried, and thrust the letter into his hands.

“Dearest lady,” it ran, “the Crown has intervened successfully.  The Heir Apparent has been set aside.  The understanding may now be ratified.  May I dine with you to-night?

 “Yours, M.

“P.S.—­You are the first to know, but I have also sent a note to our young friend, Ian Stafford.  Mais, he cannot say, ‘Alone I did it.’

 “M.”

“Thank God—­thank God, for England!” said Ian solemnly, the greater thing in him deeply stirred.  “Now let war come, if it must; for we can do our work without interference.”

“Thank God,” he repeated, fervently, and the light in his eyes was clearer and burned brighter than the fire which had filled them during the past few moments.

Then he clasped her in his arms again.

As Ian drove swiftly in a hansom to the Foreign Office, his brain putting in array and reviewing the acts which must flow from this international agreement now made possible, the note Mennaval had written Jasmine flashed before his eyes:  “Dearest lady....  May I dine with you to-night? . . .  M.”