“I would ask you one thing,” went on the Prince, speaking in a low tone.  “Do not let me stay to fall into fresh errors.  Teach me—­guide me, Casimir; I will be the most docile of your pupils.  As for Zara—­”

He paused, as if overcome.

“Come with me,” said Heliobas, taking his arm; “a glass of good wine will invigorate you.  It is better to see Zara no more for a time.  Let me take charge of you.  You, mademoiselle,” turning to me, “will be kind enough to tell Zara that the Prince has recovered, and sends her a friendly good-night.  Will that message suffice?” he inquired of Ivan, with a smile.

The Prince looked at me with a sort of wistful gravity as I came forward to bid him farewell.

“You will embrace her,” he said slowly, “without fear.  Her eyes will rain sunshine upon you; they will not dart lightning.  Her lips will meet yours, and their touch will be warm—­not cold, as sharp steel.  Yes; bid her good-night for me; tell her that an erring man kisses the hem of her robe, and prays her for pardon.  Tell her that I understand; tell her I have seen her lover!”

“With these words, uttered distinctly and emphatically, he turned away with.  Heliobas, who still held him by the arm in a friendly, half-protecting manner.  The tears stood in my eyes.  I called softly: 

“Good-night, Prince Ivan!”

He looked back with a faint smile.

“Good-night, mademoiselle!”

Heliobas also looked back and gave me an encouraging nod, which meant several things at once, such as “Do not be anxious,” “He will be all right soon,” and “Always believe the best.”  I watched their two figures disappear through the doorway, and then, feeling almost cheerful again, I knocked at the door of Zara’s studio.  She opened it at once, and came out.  I delivered the Prince’s message, word for word, as he had given it.  She listened, and sighed deeply.

“Are you sorry for him, Zara?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied; “I am sorry for him as far as I can be sorry for anything.  I am never actually very sorry for any circumstances, however grievous they may appear.”

I was surprised at this avowal.

“Why, Zara,” I said, “I thought you were so keenly sympathetic?”

“So I am sympathetic, but only with suffering ignorance—­a dying bird that knows not why it should die—­a withering rose that sees not the reason for its withering; but for human beings who wilfully blind themselves to the teachings of their own instincts, and are always doing what they know they ought not to do in spite of warning, I cannot say I am sorry.  And for those who do study the causes and ultimate results of their existence, there is no occasion to be sorry, as they are perfectly happy, knowing everything that happens to them to be for their advancement and justification.”

“Tell me,” I asked with a little hesitation, “what did Prince Ivan mean by saying he had seen your lover, Zara?”