‘Is the danger so pressing, then?’ asked the frightened woman.
‘I do not know how pressing it is,’ I answered gloomily. ‘I cannot
even be sure that Queen Draga will be suffered to leave that table
alive.’
‘Oh, you are mistaken there!’ Anna exclaimed. ‘My mistress is safe.
She has had a private assurance that she will be allowed to flee.’
‘Has she fled?’ I retorted. I thought I knew Draga better than her
servant did.
Silence followed. The knowledge that Prince Peter had evidently
contrived to give orders on behalf of the Queen, in the event of
violence being employed, soothed me to some extent. Nevertheless, a
sad and terrible presentiment warned me to expect the worst.
A low scratching on the inner door, that leading into the Royal
boudoir, told us that the victim was still alive. A bolt was
withdrawn, and the next moment I found myself in Queen Draga’s
presence.
It was the same woman whom I had left a few years ago, in the full
bloom of her womanhood, but how changed, how stricken! The harassed
brow, the hunted look in the eyes, the grey streaks in the hair, all
told me what the difference had been between the lot of the Queen and
the simple Countess.
‘You are from Monsieur ----?’ she whispered.