“Quinnox!  Quinnox!  Come back!  I forbid—­I forbid!  Destroy those papers!  Quinnox!’”

But Quinnox heard not the pitiful wail.  He rode on, his dark face stamped with pity for the man whose arrest he was to make.  Had he heard that cry from his sovereign the papers would have been in her destroying grasp with the speed that comes only to the winged birds.  Seeing him disappear down the avenue, she threw her hands to her head and sank back with a moan, fainting.  Count Halfont caught her in his arms.  It was nightfall before she was fully revived.  The faithful young Countess clung to her caressingly, lovingly, uttering words of consolation until long after the shades of night had dropped.  They were alone in the Princess’s boudoir, seated together upon the divan, the tired head of the one resting wearily against the shoulder of the other.  Gentle fingers toyed with the tawny tresses, and a soft voice lulled with its consoling promises of hope.  Wide and dark and troubled were the eyes of the ruler of Graustark.

An attendant appeared and announced the arrival of one of the American gentlemen, who insisted on seeing Her Royal Highness.  The card on the tray bore the name of Harry Anguish.  At once the Princess was aflutter with eagerness and excitement.

“Anguish!  Show him to this room quickly!  Oh, Dagmar, he brings word from him!  He comes from him!  Why is he so slow?  Ach, I cannot wait!”

Far from being slow, Anguish was exceedingly swift in approaching the room to which he feared admittance might be denied.  He strode boldly, impetuously into the apartment, his feet muddy, his clothing splashed with rain, his appearance far from that of a gentleman.

“Tell me!  What is it?” she cried, as he stopped in the center of the room and glared at her.

“I don’t care whether you like it and it doesn’t matter if you are a Princess,” he exploded, “there are a few things I’m going to say to you.  First, I want to know what kind of a woman you are to throw into prison a man like—­like Oh, it drives me crazy to think of it!  I don’t care if you are insulted.  He’s a friend of mine and he is no more guilty than you are, and I want to know what you mean by ordering his arrest?”

Her lips parted as if to speak, her face grew deathly pale, her fingers clutched the edge o’ the divan.  She stared at him piteously, unable to move, to speak.  Then the blue eyes filled with tears, a sob came to her lips, and her tortured heart made a last, brave effort at defense.

“I—­I—­Mr. Anguish, you wrong me,—­I—­I—­” She tried to whisper through the closed throat and stiffened lips.  Words failed her, but she pleaded with those wet, imploring eyes.  His heart melted, his anger was swept away in a twinkling.  He saw that he had wounded her most unjustly.

“You brute!” hissed the Countess, with flashing, indignant eyes, throwing her arms about the Princess and drawing her head to her breast.