THE GREAT WHITE CZAR
The sudden utterance of Count Orloff, combined with the simultaneous
appearance of the Duke of Bora, caused an electric thrill to pervade
the cathedral.
The holy Gospels, appealed to by a method approved by both factions
alike, seemed to have given a mandate in favor of the duke, to the
confusion of the adherents of the princess. The occupants of the
northern aisle, as well as of the northern transept, gave instant
proof of the side on which their sympathies lay. They rose to their
feet as one man, and ignoring the sacred character of the place, gave
vent to tumultuous cries.
"The holy oracles are on our side!"
"They bid us elect a man, and not a woman!"
"A John, and not a Natalie!"
"One sent from God, and not from Rome!"
"Bora, Bora! Give us Bora! The duke is our ruler!"
Their voices immediately became lost in the overwhelming shouts of the
Poles, who likewise rose to their feet, and replied by counter-cries.
"The princess! the princess! We will have none but Natalie Lilieska!"
There was not a shadow of doubt in Zabern's mind that the assembling
of the Muscovites in the northern transept, the apt lection of Mosco,
the utterance of Orloff, and the sudden appearing of the duke were all
parts of a preconcerted arrangement.
"Holy hireling of the duke!" he said, grinding his teeth and
addressing Mosco, "you have done your work. Stand from the choir, or
by heaven!" he continued, half unsheathing his sabre, "I'll add a
martyr to the Russian calendar."
"Thou hast the wisdom of the serpent, marshal, though scarcely the
innocence of the dove," sneered the archpastor, who had many an old
score to settle with Zabern. "We will see if thy wit can get the
better of this situation. No Catholic ruler in Czernova!"
And directing a glance of scarcely disguised hatred towards the
princess, he withdrew from the choir and took his station among the
Muscovites.
Amid wild excitement the Duke of Bora, his face somewhat pale,
continued to advance till he reached the open space fronting the
choir, where he stood visible to all in the cathedral.
His outward appearance was sufficiently indicative of the power upon
which he relied for support, for he was clad in the grand uniform of a
marshal of the Seminovski Guards, and carried on his breast the cross
of Saint Andrew, the blue riband of Russia.
At his approach the princess rose from her seat. The two factions
perceiving her action, and curious to learn what she would say, ceased
their raging.
"Marshal Zabern," cried Barbara in a voice that sounded like music
after the raucous clamor of the previous few moments: "I call upon you
to re-arrest that escaped prisoner, and to conduct him to the
Citadel."
"You threaten me with imprisonment?" exclaimed Bora with a stern air.
"It is mine to threaten, and yours to fear. People of Czernova," he
continued, turning from the choir to address the assembly, "hear a
revelation, strange yet true. She who sits there has no right to the
crown, inasmuch as she is not Natalie Lilieska, but an impostor
bearing a marvellous resemblance to that princess. The true Natalie
died in Dalmatia more than two years ago."
The duke's words destroyed Zabern's lingering hope that Ravenna's
letter might have miscarried, for how had Bora become possessed of his
present knowledge, except through the medium of the cardinal's dove?
"Marshal Zabern," continued the duke, pointing to Barbara, "I call
upon you to arrest an impostor who usurps my throne."
"And you may call," replied Zabern.
The duke's statement drew derisive laughter from the Poles; it was too
absurd for belief, a malicious invention of a disappointed suitor. At
this point Polonaski the Justiciary, who occupied a seat directly
fronting the choir, arose and addressed the princess.
"Lady," he began, and showing by that word that he, too, like Mosco,
had taken the side of her enemies, "lady, you have heard the duke's
accusation. Let this assembly learn from you whether the charge be
true."
It was hard for a youthful and spirited princess to be catechised by a
minister who had suddenly turned against her.
"Your Highness, do not answer the traitorous gray-beard," said Zabern.
For a moment only did Barbara hesitate.
"It is true that I am not Natalie Lilieska."
An earthquake rocking the cathedral-pavement could not have dismayed
the Poles more than had this startling acknowledgment. True it must
be, since she herself admitted the impeachment,--an impeachment fatal
to her own interests. And if she must cease to be princess, what would
become of them under the rule of Bora?
The Muscovites, themselves bewildered with the unforeseen turn taken
by events, sat as silent as the Poles.
"Consider well what you say," observed Polonaski with a slight smile
of triumph. "You dethrone yourself by that statement."
"Not so," replied Barbara. "So long as I should have lived, the
Princess Natalie could not have reigned; inasmuch as I am her elder
sister Barbara, and therefore lawfully entitled to the throne."
The Poles raised a shout of applause; though somewhat dubious as to
the truth of Barbara's statement, they were prepared to welcome it, as
well as any other device which might deliver them from the power of
the duke.
"Barbara Lilieska," returned the Justiciary, "is a person of whose
existence Czernova has hitherto been ignorant. Princess Stephanie,
wife of the late Thaddeus, had but one daughter, Natalie."
"I am the daughter of an earlier marriage."
"You bring strange tidings to our ears. It was never known in Czernova
that Prince Thaddeus was twice wedded. Have you proof of this former
marriage?"
"Yes," replied Barbara, inspired by a sudden thought, "I will cite
yourself, Polonaski, as a witness, for at the time of my father's
demise you were present with other ministers in the death-chamber. You
can testify that Prince Thaddeus handed the diadem to me with the
words: 'To you, my daughter lawfully born, do I bequeath this crown,
to be held for the weal of Czernova.' Do you mark the words 'lawfully
born'? Ill would my sire merit his title of 'The Good' if he died in
the utterance of a lie. And what I have received, that will I keep."
The thunders of Polish applause in no way disconcerted the calm and
forensic Polonaski.
"The word of the dying prince is not legal proof," he answered. "And,
moreover, lady, you yourself, in concealing your own identity and in
taking the name of another, have given clear evidence of disbelief in
the claim that you now put forward."
"People of Czernova," said the duke, raising his voice, and again
addressing the assembly, "I affirm that she who calls herself Barbara
Lilieska was not born in lawful wedlock, but is a natural daughter of
the late Prince Thaddeus, and as such is debarred from the
succession. In the days of old," he continued, "when Czernova was a
palatinate, the palatine at his investiture, was always prepared,
either in person or by deputy, to defend his rights with the sword,
nor was the rite discontinued when the palatines became princes and
the investiture a coronation. I invoke the ancient law of the land and
claim the ordeal of battle. I demand that the princess, so-called,
shall meet me by deputy in single combat. There is my gage," he added,
flinging his leathern gauntlet upon the flagstone of the choir. "Let
the sword decide between us."
A triumphant laugh arose from the Muscovites. Where was the champion
who would face the duke's deadly blade? Not even Zabern durst pick up
that glove. Willingly would he have sacrificed his life in the cause
of the princess, but death in this case would mean her deposition.
"The stars in their courses fight against Czernova," muttered Zabern,
clenching his one and only hand. "Long ago, foreseeing this challenge
would be given, I provided, as I thought, for the event. And now we
must decline the combat, for our swordsman," he added in despair, "our
swordsman is absent."
"It is now eleven," remarked Polonaski. The cathedral clock was
chiming as he spoke. "The princess must appoint her champion within an
hour from the giving of the challenge, the duel itself to take place
upon the same day as the challenge. So runs the statute."
The mild and pacific Radzivil had beheld with indignation the casting
down of the duke's glove.
"What a return to barbarism is this," he cried, addressing the
Justiciary, "to make the crown of Czernova dependent upon the result
of a duel! The statute which you cite is five hundred years old. It is
obsolete, quite obsolete."
"By your favor," replied Polonaski, cool and judicial as ever, "permit
me, as the highest legal authority in Czernova, to affirm that as that
law is still on the statute-book it is therefore valid and of good
effect."
"Your contention is null and void," said Zabern, "inasmuch as the Diet
has passed a law against duelling."
"Against ordinary duelling--true; but the recent statute contains no
clause against the coronation-combat, which, therefore, stands as part
of the law of the land."
"The ex-Justiciary," said Barbara, deposing him from his office by a
word, even as he had deposed her by a word, "the ex-Justiciary, as the
interpreter of the law, should know that a traitor has no legal
standing. The duke has shown himself a traitor to the state, and is
therefore not in a position to impugn his sovereign."
"No court of justice has yet proved him to be a traitor," replied the
inflexible Polonaski. "We cannot accept the word of even the lawful
sovereign as the voice of the law, still less the word of an usurper."
"An usurper and a harlot's daughter," cried the voice of Orloff from
amid the Muscovite ranks.
At this a deep murmur of indignation ran through the Polish part of
the assembly.
"Men of Czernova," cried a woman's voice, "do you sit thus inactive,
letting your princess be opposed and insulted by the Czar's hirelings?
Where is the ancient spirit of the Poles fled? Would our forefathers
have won this banner if they had shown the timidity that you now
show?"
All eyes turned towards the speaker, who was none other than Katina
Ludovska. Standing high upon a seat in the centre of the nave, she was
plainly visible to all in the cathedral. While speaking she shook out
the silken folds of the standard she had carried in the procession,
and with her drawn sword pointed to the stamp of the bloody hand.
Her action was well understood by the Poles. What their fathers had
done they could do. Her gesture was a tacit incentive to rise, to give
battle to the Muscovites, and to sweep them from the cathedral. In
silver helm and corselet Katina stood aloft, looking like some fair
Amazon of ancient days. With eyes starry with patriotic fire, she
waved the standard, and began to sing in a firm, sweet voice that
penetrated to the most distant part of the cathedral,--
"Boja ro-dzica dziewica
Bojiem wslavisna Marya--"
A wave of emotion thrilled the assembly as these words fell upon their
ears.
"The old Polish battle-hymn!" muttered Zabern. "By God, there'll be
slaughter now."
It was indeed the famous hymn of Saint Adalbert, the anthem accustomed
to be sung in old time by the Poles when moving forward to battle, the
pæan that has struck terror to the heart of Muscovite, Tartar, and
Turk in those brave days when Poland was the bulwark of Christendom
against the barbarism of the East.
The memory of their past glories fired the blood of every patriot in
the cathedral to an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy. Moved by a
simultaneous impulse, the whole body of Poles sprang to their feet,
drew their swords, and began to join in the refrain; and Katina's
voice was immediately drowned in one grand outpouring.
The sparkle of a thousand sword-blades waving in the iridescent light
cast by richly stained glass, the coloring and splendor of dresses and
jewels, the magnificent roll of voices beneath the lofty Gothic
arches, the notes of the organ pealing high above the chant--for the
organist, catching the fire of patriotism, was pressing the keys of
his instrument as he had never pressed them before--were sights and
sounds that baffle description. Strong men sang with tears in their
eyes, and women fainted with emotion.
Now, as previously stated, the Muscovites occupied the northern aisle
and its adjacent transept, a narrow space only separating them from
the Poles in the nave. Across this division the two factions glared
fiercely at each other; threats were uttered; challenges interchanged;
and when the Muscovites in turn began to raise the Russian National
Anthem the berserker spirit of the Poles broke forth.
"Down with the Muscovites!"
"Sweep them from the cathedral!"
"The princess forever!"
"No. Duke of Bora!"
Katina herself, skilled in the use of the sword, was the first in the
fray, the standard still held in her hand.
"Take to your guard, knouter of women!" she cried, singling out her
old enemy, the ex-governor of Orenburg.
Her example found ready imitators, and in a moment more the clash of
steel went ringing down the northern aisle.
Half-a-dozen Muscovites, sword in hand, sprang forward, and facing
outwards, formed a protecting circle around the person of the duke,
who, for his part, stood with folded arms, a passive and silent
spectator of the wild work that was taking place.
Zabern, desirous of defending Katina, drew his sabre and endeavored to
force his way through the two opposing lines to the place where the
red-handed banner waved like a rallying beacon above the flashing
points of steel.
Barbara rose to her feet and gazed with grief upon a scene, the like
of which, though rarely witnessed in modern times within the hallowed
interior of a cathedral, was familiar enough in the old Byzantine days
when the election of a bishop had often to be decided by an appeal to
arms.
She was in the act of bidding Radzivil summon the military to part the
combatants, when a sudden and striking apparition rendered the command
unnecessary.
"Down with your arms!"
The voice in which these words were uttered rose like thunder above
the _mêlée_, compelling even the two long lines of combatants to pause
and turn their eyes towards the speaker. On the edge of the choir, and
with hand uplifted, stood a stately figure clothed in a brilliant and
imposing uniform, a figure half a head taller at least than the usual
height of men, and standing as he did upon the elevated pavement of
the choir, his stature seemed more than human.
Though few in the cathedral had ever before seen this personage, yet
all recognized in a moment the superb brow, the severe, haughty
features, the dark eyes always melancholy, even when the mouth smiled.
"The devil himself at last!" murmured Zabern, a grim joy stealing over
his face. "Now have the saints delivered him as a hostage into our
hands!"
The stranger's form seemed really to dilate, as, with the voice of one
born to command, he again cried,--
"Down with your arms!"
Furious conspirators, advancing to slay, had once been awed and
checked by that lofty voice, that majestic presence, which did not
fail now to produce a remarkable effect.
"The Czar! the Czar!" cried the Poles.
"The little father! the little father!" cried the Muscovites.
The fighting ceased. The assailants on each side fell back. Slowly the
tumult died away in utter silence. The wounded repressed their groans;
for wounded there were; many, too, brief as had been the combat; and
one man lay dead upon the pavement, slain by the hand of a woman.
The Czar, for it was in truth the mighty Nicholas, turned his face
slowly round upon all sides. The fiercest of the Poles felt compelled
to sheathe his blade and to resume his seat as that terrible eye fell
upon him. Who durst continue to assail a Muscovite with the lord of
the Muscovites looking on, even though that lord were without a single
guard?
It was somewhat mortifying to Barbara's pride that the cessation of
the strife should have been caused by the authority of the Czar rather
than by her own, since it seemed to place him upon a higher plane than
herself. Clearly he had prevented a massacre of her Muscovite
subjects, and thus far thanks were due to him. But Barbara was in no
mood to offer courtesies to one who had always shown himself a bitter
enemy. The very authority now assumed by him was an infringement of
her own, and put her instantly upon her mettle.
Among the combatants there was one at least who retained an undaunted
mien, namely, Katina. She advanced towards the choir, wiping her
reddened blade upon the silken standard, which during the fray had
become detached from the staff.
At the edge of the choir Katina knelt.
"Seek not pardon of me," exclaimed the Czar loftily, mistaking her
purpose. "You who commenced the fray, you who have slain one of my own
subjects!"
"The stars shall fall from heaven ere Katina Ludovska craves pardon of
Nicholas Paulovitch," scornfully replied the Polish maiden, ever
mindful of the fact that the warrant condemning her to receive the
knout was signed with this same name, Nicholas Paulovitch. "Your
Highness," she continued, still on her knees, and addressing Barbara,
"if through zeal I have wrought amiss in slaying one who traduced the
fair name of my princess, of you alone I crave pardon."
"If the name of him whom you have slain be Feodor Orloff," said
Barbara, "then have you done a good deed, and you need ask pardon of
none."
A Russian governor slain in the very presence of the Czar, and the
princess justifying the deed! Barbara's ministers sat completely
dumfounded by her boldness. There were two sovereigns in the choir,
each contending for the mastery; which would prevail?
Turning to the emperor with an air of dignity and self-possession,
Barbara said,--
"Let the Czar explain by what right he has set free a traitor
imprisoned by my authority."
Such language as this was new to the autocrat, who is credited with
the saying, "Let there be no will in Russia but that of the Czar." He
glanced with surprise, not unmixed with admiration, at the young girl
who faced him so spiritedly.
"What gives you such boldness in the presence of the Czar?"
"The Charter of your ancestress Catherine."
"Catherine, 'tis true, granted to the palatines of Czernova the title
of princes, but conferred no independence upon them. The story of the
Charter is a myth."
"Your Majesty may see upon the altar here the identical document
itself, signed by the hand of the empress."
"That," replied Nicholas, scarcely deigning to turn his eyes in the
direction indicated, "that document is a forgery, as Marshal Zabern
can prove."
"I plainly see that a little bird has been whispering to him,"
murmured Zabern to himself.
A scornful repudiation trembled upon Barbara's lips, but it died away
when she beheld Zabern's grave look.
"Marshal, is not that the original Charter of Catherine?"
There was something so wistful and pathetic in her expression--an
expression which plainly said, "Let me know the worst,"--that Zabern
felt he could no longer deceive her.
"It is a faithful transcript, so please your Highness."
Barbara understood the significant reply. Zabern, in describing to her
the plot formed by Bora and Orloff for the destruction of the Charter,
had represented the scheme as resulting in failure. She now perceived
that from pity the marshal had kept the terrible truth from her,
endeavoring to repair Czernova's loss by means of a forged document.
Wrong of him, doubtless, but the fault lay more with those whose
wickedness had compelled him to resort to such a policy.
Outwardly Barbara was as firm and as brave as ever, but inwardly she
felt that her throne was going, nay, had gone from her. And bitter
indeed was it to see the crafty flourishing in their craftiness.
She beckoned Zabern to her side.
"So, marshal," she whispered sadly, but not reproachfully, "you have
deceived me."
"With good intent, your Highness."
"Is forgery good?"
"Yes, in this case. Do you blame me, princess, for seeking to maintain
the liberties of Czernova?"
"Ill would it become me to blame you, Zabern, especially at such time
as this."
She turned from him to listen to the Czar, who seemed to be addressing
herself and the assembly in common.
"The marshal," he said, "dare not uphold the genuineness of the
document upon the altar. It is now manifest that Czernova can show no
valid title to the autonomy it has so long exercised. It is an
integral part of the Russian dominion, and to-day we resume our
usurped authority. As sovereign-lord of this principality we declare
the claim of the present occupant of the throne to be null and void."
"On what ground?" inquired Radzivil.
"On the ground alleged by the duke--illicit birth."
Zabern marked Barbara's look of humiliation, and thought it not amiss
to give the emperor _quid pro quo_.
"A difficult matter this proving of one's legitimacy," he observed,
turning to the assembly as if taking them into his confidence. "I have
even known emperors to be in doubt as to the true name of their
grandfathers."
This allusion to the frailties of Catherine drew a terrible look from
the Czar. He even laid hand upon his sword; but, checking his wrath,
he resumed his speech to the assembly.
"And though in the strict view of the law the Duke of Bora be the
rightful ruler of this principality, yet we, as suzerain, in the
exercise of our clemency will permit the princess so-called to retain
her throne, provided she can produce a champion who shall overcome the
duke in armed combat."
"Then the duke's challenge meets with your Majesty's approval?" said
Radzivil.
"As suzerain," replied the emperor, "it is my duty to uphold the
usages and institutions of the principality; and the Justiciary--"
"Ex-Justiciary," corrected Barbara quietly.
"We will not quarrel as to that. It is enough that the highest legal
authority here present has affirmed that the duke's action is in
entire assonance with the Czernovese law."
The Czar did not add, as he might have added, that it was almost
certain that the duke would gain the crown by this arrangement, which
was the reason why he, the Autocrat, had become so suddenly favorable
to constitutionalism. It would be more polite to place his kinsman
Bora upon the throne under the guise of law, than to install him by
force of arms. Europe, then, could not so easily raise a protest.
"If," said Barbara, addressing the emperor, "if duelling be so
agreeable to your Majesty, on what ground do you now justify your
former demand for the extradition of the duke?"
Nicholas, little accustomed to be catechised or to give reasons for
his conduct, frowned and was silent.
Zabern laughed.
"Princess, you demand too much in requiring a Czar to be logical."
"And how," asked Radzivil of the emperor, "how if we should ignore the
duke's claim and should proceed with the coronation of the princess?"
The Czar's eyes flashed at this defiance of his authority.
"If you will not uphold your own laws, there is a power upon the
frontier that shall compel you to do so."
Ill-starred Barbara! Publicly stigmatized as illegitimate; her
principality void of its boasted Charter; her dream of a Polish empire
vanished; her own throne of Czernova forfeited to the duke, inasmuch
as it meant death to any one who should meet him in combat. And all
this occurring in the space of one brief hour upon the day which she
had anticipated as the most splendid of her life!
Was this to be the end of her triumphal progress through the shouting
crowds of her capital--doomed amid the mocking laughter of the
Muscovites to quit the cathedral a discrowned princess, attended by a
melancholy train of fallen ministers?
"I am--I AM princess!" she murmured between her set teeth. "They shall
not drive me from the throne."
But what booted it to resist? There, a few paces off, and sternly
opposed to her, was the master of many legions, the lord of
one-seventh of the globe, who had but to give the signal, and one
hundred thousand troops would come marching across the border to do
his will. She might have Right on her side, but he had Might, and
bitterly did she realize the saying of the old Norse god: "Force rules
the world; has ruled it; shall rule it."
Zabern, however, fertile in expedients, was not yet reduced to a state
of despair. He had formed the plan of seizing the Czar as a prisoner
of war, and of making his release conditional upon the cession of
autonomy to Czernova. If Barbara should refuse to sanction this
desperate scheme, well then he, Zabern, would act without her, finding
a higher authority in the interests of the Czernovese. Much as he
revered the princess, if that princess should refuse to be true to
herself, it would behove him to put the state before the individual.
He was on the point of communicating his design to Barbara when
Polonaski rose to speak.
"The hour is drawing to a close. She who calls herself princess has
but five minutes left in which to appoint her champion."
At a sign from the Czar the Duke of Bora stepped forward to renew his
challenge.
"Barbara Lilieska," he said amid a solemn hush, "I call upon you
either to resign the crown you have usurped, or to defend it at the
sword's point. Appoint your champion. My desire is for a man that we
may fight together."
"Have, then, your desire!" cried a firm, clear voice.
All eyes were immediately turned towards the speaker who had just
entered the cathedral by the western porch,--a young man with face
bronzed as if by eastern suns, his handsome, athletic figure arrayed
in a dark-blue uniform with silver facings.
"Paul Woodville, by all that's holy!" cried Zabern in an ecstacy of
delight.
"The man who defeated me at Tajapore," murmured the Czar darkly.
Amid a scene of wild excitement Paul moved towards the choir, his long
cloak hanging gracefully from his shoulders, his sabre clanking
heavily upon the cathedral pavement.
Barbara, her heart beating wildly, her lips parted in a smile, half of
pride, half of fear, watched him, knowing for what purpose he was
advancing.
Paul reached the edge of the choir, and picking up the duke's
gauntlet, which had lain untouched for an hour, he tossed it
disdainfully against its owner's face.
"Duke of Bora, I will do battle with you to the death on behalf of the
princess."
"One moment, young sir," said Polonaski. "You cannot nominate
yourself. The appointment rests with the lady. Do you accept this man
as your champion?" he added, turning to Barbara.
"Oh, no, no!" cried Barbara. "This must not be."
A minute previously she had been longing to triumph over the Czar; now
the princess was lost in the woman. She would rather resign her throne
than put Paul's life to such terrible hazard.
The anguish pictured on her face, her clasped hands, her form bent
forward, attested the state of her feelings towards the handsome young
Englishman. There was not one person in the cathedral ignorant of the
cause of her emotion. Her love for Paul, and the reason of his going
away, were matters well known to all the Czernovese. His sudden return
at this crisis imparted an additional interest to a tableau already
thrilling.
"By heaven, your Highness must accept him," whispered Zabern in her
ear. "I have tested his swordsmanship in the _salle d'armes_ with a
view to this very event, and I know that the duke has no chance
against him."
Barbara remained silent. A struggle was taking place in her mind. The
high spirit that had sustained her during the terrible strain of the
last twenty-four hours was beginning to give way. Her crown had never
brought her anything but sorrow. Why not resign it, and depart with
Paul to his own Kentish home, that home which he had so often
described to her,--a fair castellated hall shaded with beech-trees
beside a cool lake! Far happier the life of an English lady than that
of a princess ruling over a semi-barbarous people.
Polonaski had marked Zabern's triumphant smile at the appearance of
Paul, and that smile made him somewhat uneasy, implying as it did a
firm belief in Paul's ability to overcome the duke.
"Was not Captain Woodville banished from Czernova?" he asked; "because
if so he has no right to be on Czernovese ground."
"Captain Woodville retired from Czernova of his own free will,"
replied Zabern. "The cabinet signed no decree of banishment against
him."
Barbara was still wavering in mind.
"Stick to your throne," growled Zabern.
"To hold it as a vassal of the Czar!" she murmured faintly.
"Fear not. We'll find a way of defeating his claim of suzerainty.
What! will you desert the faithful Poles who have so long stood by
you? Will your Highness resign your throne to the duke, a traitor and
assassin, when you have the opportunity of giving him his final
quietus? Who slew Trevisa? Who burnt the Charter? Who has brought the
Russian army within our borders? Who but the duke? And now will you
let him triumph? Give the word for the duel. Princess, I know, I
_know_," he added emphatically, "that Captain Woodville will come off
victorious."
At this point the Czar spoke.
"The princess so-called must either appoint a champion or prepare to
abdicate."
Despair seized the Poles at the thought of being ruled by Bora,--Bora,
who in his cups had been heard to declare that when he should come to
power, he would harness the Polish nobles to the yoke, and compel
them to plough his fields.
Loud murmurs arose at Barbara's reluctance to accept Paul as her
champion.
"Appoint him, your Highness, appoint him," was the cry.
"Let Captain Woodville slay the duke, and receive the hand of the
princess as his reward," cried Zabern. "Have I not said?" he added,
addressing the assembly.
The cathedral rang with a shout of applause, a shout that doomed the
princely marriage statute to the limbo of obsolete things. Zabern had
voiced the sentiments of the Poles. Better an untitled Englishman than
Bora.
At that moment the first stroke of twelve chimed from the cathedral
clock. Barbara's decision, if given after the hour, would be too late.
To his dismay Zabern saw that she was on the point of swooning.
"The word, princess, the word!" he cried, almost savagely.
"Barbara, say the word," pleaded Paul gently.
She looked at him, and was unable to resist the wistful, earnest
appeal of his eyes.
"I accept--Captain Woodville--as--my--my champion," she gasped. "Oh!
what have I done?" she added in the next moment. And as the twelfth
stroke of the clock died away, she swayed helplessly forward and sank
unconscious into Paul's arms. He surrendered her light form to the
care of her attendant ladies, who immediately bore her away from the
choir to the sacristy which had served as her robing-room.
"Duke of Bora," cried Zabern, with an exultant smile, "your last hour
has come!"