And was not this existence sweet and pleasant, compared with the life led by Tisza in the castle of the suburbs of Moscow?

In this solitude, in the villa of Maisons-Lafitte, Andras Zilah was again to see Marsa Laszlo.  He came not once, but again and again.  He was, perhaps, since the death of Prince Tchereteff, the only man General Vogotzine had seen in his niece’s house, and Marsa was always strangely happy when Andras came to see her.

“Mademoiselle is very particular when Prince Zilah is coming to Maisons,” said her maid to her.

“Because Prince Zilah is not a man like other men.  He is a hero.  In my mother’s country there is no name more popular than his.”

“So I have heard Count Menko say to Mademoiselle.”

If it were the maid’s wish to remove all happiness from her mistress’s face, she had met with complete success.

At the name of Menko, Marsa’s expression became dark and threatening.  Prince Andras had noticed this same change in the Tzigana’s face, when he was speaking to her at Baroness Dinati’s.

The Prince had forgotten no detail of that first fascinating interview, at which his love for the Tzigana was born.  This man, who had hardly any other desire than to end in peace a life long saddened by defeat and exile, suddenly awoke to a happy hope of a home and family joys.  He was rich, alone in the world, and independent; and he was, therefore, free to choose the woman to be made his princess.  No caste prejudice prevented him from giving his title to the daughter of Tisza.  The Zilahs, in trying to free their country, had freed themselves from all littleness; and proud, but not vain, they bore but slight resemblance to those Magyars of whom Szechenyi, the great count, who died of despair in 1849, said:  “The overweening haughtiness of my people will be their ruin.”

The last of the Zilahs did not consider his pride humiliated by loving and wedding a Tzigana.  Frankly, in accents of the deepest love and the most sincere devotion, Andras asked Marsa Laszlo if she would consent to become his wife.  But he was terrified at the expression of anguish which passed over the pale face of the young girl.

Marsa, Princess Zilah!  Like her mother, she would have refused from a Tchereteff this title of princess which Andras offered her, nay, laid at her feet with passionate tenderness.  But—­Princess Zilah!

She regarded with wild eyes the Prince, who stood before her, timid and with trembling lips, awaiting her reply.  But, as she did not answer, he stooped over and took her hands in his.

“What is it?” he cried; for Marsa’s fingers were icy.

It cost the young girl a terrible effort to prevent herself from losing consciousness.

“But speak to me, Marsa,” exclaimed Andras, “do not keep me in suspense.”

He had loved her now for six months, and an iron hand seemed to clutch the heart of this man, who had never known what it was to fear, at the thought that perhaps Marsa did not return his love.