“But what can I do?” in desperation exclaimed Count Vavel.  “I cannot hide in my castle until Colonel Barthelmy leaves the neighborhood.  Would you have me confess to all the world that I am a coward?”

“Let me advise you, Herr Count,” with sudden resolution responded the baroness.  “Turn this matter, which you look upon as a tragedy, into a capital jest.  Take me to drive with you to-day instead of your—­friend.”

Count Vavel suddenly burst into a loud laugh—­from extreme anger to unrestrained merriment.

But the baroness did not laugh with him.

“I am in earnest, Count Vavel.  Now you will understand why I came here this morning.”  She drew her veil over her face, and asked:  “Am I enough like her to take her place in the carriage?”

Count Vavel was astounded.  The likeness to Marie was perfect.  The gown, the hat, and veil were exactly like those Marie was wont to wear when she drove out with him.  The daring suggestion, however, amazed him more than anything else.

“What!  You, baroness?  You would really venture to drive with me?  Have you thought of the risk—­the danger to yourself?”

“I have given it as much thought as did you when you risked coming to the manor with nothing but a walking-stick to battle with four thieves.  One ought not stop to think of the risk when a danger is to be averted.  This adventure may end as harmlessly as the other.”

“And suppose the colonel should by any chance see your face?  No, no, baroness; there is no comparison between my venture and this plan you propose.  If I had had an encounter with those thieves I might have received a wound that would soon have healed; but your pure reputation as a woman might receive a wound that would never heal.”

A bitter smile wreathed the lady’s lips as she replied:  “Could any wound that I might receive increase the burden on my heart?” She laughed harshly, then asked suddenly:  “Perhaps you are afraid the colonel will think I am the mysterious lady of the Nameless Castle?”

Count Vavel’s face reddened to the roots of his hair.

Again the lady laughed, then said apologetically:  “Pardon me, but the idea amused me.  But, to return to Colonel Barthelmy, he is going very shortly to Italy with his regiment; therefore, I need not care what fables he thinks of me—­or repeats.  The few persons whose opinion I care for will not believe him; as for the others—­pah!  Come, your hand on it!  Let us perpetrate this joke.  If I am willing to run the risk, you surely need not hesitate.”

And yet he hesitated.

“Don’t speak of this plan of yours as a mischievous trick, baroness,” he said earnestly.  “It is a great, a noble sacrifice—­so great, indeed, that living woman could not perform a greater—­to be willing to blush with shame while innocent.  She who blushes for her love does not suffer; but to flush with shame out of friendship must be a torture like that endured by martyrs.”