“But why useless, if you are inclined to interfere?” she said, boldly, “and I think my father’s family have some title to consideration.”

“My old friend,” said he, in a kindly way, “what is there in the world I would not do for you if it were within my power?  But this is not.  What you ask is, to put the matter shortly, impossible—­impossible!”

In the brief silence that followed the mother heard a slight sigh:  she turned instantly, and saw her daughter, as white as death, about to fall.  She caught her in her arms with a slight cry of alarm.

“Here, Stefan, take my handkerchief—­dip it in the water—­quick!”

The huge, bullet-headed man strode across the lawn to the fountain.  As he returned, and saw before him the white-lipped, unconscious girl, who was supported in her mother’s arms, he said to himself, “Now I understand.”

CHAPTER XLVIII.

AN APPEAL.

This sudden and involuntary confession of alarm and despair no doubt told her story more clearly than anything else could have done.  General von Zoesch as he chose to call himself, was excessively concerned; he held her hand till he saw the life returning to the pale, beautiful face:  he was profuse and earnest in his apologies.

“My dear young lady I beg a thousand pardons!—­I had no idea of alarming you; I had no idea you were so deeply interested; come, take my arm, and we will walk down into the open, where the sea-air is cool.  I beg a thousand pardons.”

She had pulled herself together with a desperate effort of will.

“You spoke abruptly, signore; you used the word impossible!  I had imagined it was unknown to you.”

Her lips were rather pale; but there was a flush of color returning to her face, and her voice had something of the old proud and pathetic ring in it.

“Yes,” she continued, standing-before him, with her eyes downcast, “I was told that when great trouble came upon me or mine I was to come here—­to Naples—­and I should find myself under the protection of the greatest power in Europe.  My name—­my mother’s name—­was to be enough.  And this is the result, that a brave man, who is our friend and dear to us, is threatened with a dishonorable death, and the very power that imposed it on him—­the power that was said to be invincible, and wise, and generous—­is unable or unwilling to stir hand or foot!”

“A dishonorable death, signorina?”

“Oh, signore,” she said, with a proud indignation, “do not speak to me as if I were a child.  Cannot one see what is behind all this secrecy?  Cannot one see that you know well what has been done in England by your friends and colleagues?  You put this man, who is too proud, too noble, to withdraw from his word, on a service that involves the certain sacrifice of his life! and there is no honor attached to this sacrifice—­so he himself has admitted.  What does that mean?—­what can it mean—­but assassination?”