“Thanks.  The funny thing is that I am instructed, with your approval, to put the place under martial law and take charge.”

“That will not be necessary, thanks,” answered Paul, going out of the open door to speak to the wild-looking Cossacks sent for his protection.

In Russia, as in other countries where life is cheaply held, the death formalities are small.  It is only in England, where we are so careful for the individual and so careless of the type, that we have to pay for dying, and leave a mass of red-tape formalities for our friends.

While the young officer was changing his uniform for the evening finery which his servant’s forethought had provided, Paul and Steinmetz hurriedly arranged what story of the evening should be given to the world.  Knowing the country as they did, they were enabled to tell a true tale, which was yet devoid of that small personal interest that gossips love.  And all the world ever knew was that the Princess Howard Alexis was killed by the revolted peasants while attempting to escape by a side door, and that the Baron Claude de Chauxville, who was staying in the neighborhood, met his death in attempting to save her from the fury of the mob.

On the recommendation of Karl Steinmetz, Paul placed the castle and village under martial law, and there and then gave the command to the young Cossack officer, pending further instructions from his general, commanding at Tver.

The officer dined with Steinmetz, and under the careful treatment of that diplomatist inaugurated a reign of military autocracy, which varied pleasingly between strict discipline and boyish neglect.

Before the master of the situation had slept off the effect of his hundred-mile ride and a heavy dinner, the next morning Steinmetz and Maggie were ready to start on their journey to England.

The breakfast was served in the room abutting on the cliff in the dim light of a misty morning.

The lamps were alight on the table, and Paul was waiting when Maggie came down cloaked for her journey.  Steinmetz had breakfasted.

They said good-morning, and managed to talk of ordinary things until Maggie was supplied with coffee and toast and a somewhat heavy, manly helping of a breakfast-dish.  Then came a silence.

Paul broke it at length with an effort, standing, as it were, on the edge of the forbidden topic.

“Steinmetz will take you all the way,” he said, “and then come back to me.  You can safely trust yourself to his care.”

“Yes,” answered the girl, looking at the food set before her with a helpless stare.  “It is not that.  Can I safely trust Etta’s memory to your judgment?  You are very stern, Paul.  I think you might easily misjudge her.  Men do not always understand a woman’s temptations.”

Paul had not sat down.  He walked away to the window, and stood there looking out into the gloomy mists.

“It is not because she was my cousin,” said Maggie from the table; “it is because she was a woman leaving her memory to be judged by two men who are both—­hard.”