And she approached the entrance of her studio, which was opposite to where I stood; but the Prince reached it before her, and placed his back against it.  His face was deathly pale, and his dark eyes blazed with wrath and love intermingled.

“No, Zara!” he exclaimed in a sort of loud whisper.  “If you think to escape me so, you are in error.  I came to you reckless and resolved!  You shall be mine if I die for it!” And he strove to seize her in his arms.  But she escaped him and stood at bay, her lips quivering, her bosom heaving, and her hands clenched.

“I warn you!” she exclaimed.  “By the intense loathing I have for you; by the force which makes my spirit rise in arms against you, I warn you!  Do not dare to touch me!  If you care for your own life, leave me while there is time!”

Never had she looked so supremely, terribly beautiful.  I gazed at her from my corner of the doorway, awed, yet fascinated.  The jewel on her breast glowed with an angry red lustre, and shot forth dazzling opaline rays, as though it were a sort of living, breathing star.  Prince Ivan paused—­entranced no doubt, as I was, by her unearthly loveliness.  His face flushed—­he gave a low laugh of admiration.  Then he made two swift strides forward and caught her fiercely in his embrace.  His triumph was brief.  Scarcely had his strong arm clasped her waist, when it fell numb and powerless—­ scarcely had his eager lips stooped towards hers, when he reeled and sank heavily on the ground, senseless!  The spell that had held me a silent spectator of the scene was broken.  Terrified, I rushed into the room, crying out: 

“Zara, Zara!  What have you done?”

Zara turned her eyes gently upon me—­they were soft and humid as though recently filled with tears.  All the burning scorn and indignation had gone out of her face—­she looked pityingly at the prostrate form of her admirer.

“He is not dead,” she said quietly.  “I will call Casimir.”

I knelt beside the Prince and raised his hand.  It was cold and heavy.  His lips were blue, and his closed eyelids looked as though, in the words of Homer, “Death’s purple finger” had shut them fast forever.  No breath—­no pulsation of the heart.  I looked fearfully at Zara.  She smiled half sadly.

“He is not dead,” she repeated.

“Are you sure?” I murmured.  “What was it, Zara, that made him fall?  I was at the door—­I saw and heard everything.”

“I know you did,” said Zara gently; “and I am glad of it.  I wished you to see and hear all.”

“Is it a fit, do you think?” I asked again, looking sorrowfully at the sad face of the unfortunate Ivan, which seemed to me to have already graven upon it the stern sweet smile of those who have passed all passion and pain forever.  “Oh, Zara! do you believe he will recover?” And tears choked my voice—­tears of compassion and regret.

Zara came and kissed me.

“Yes, he will recover—­do not fret, little one.  I have rung my private bell for Casimir; he will be here directly.  The Prince has had a shock—­not a fatal one, as you will see.  You look doubtful—­ are you afraid of me, dear?”