and it is enough. I would have had the truth from him, whatever it cost me."
Bellamy looked at her thoughtfully. It was not for nothing that the Press of every European nation had called her the most beautiful woman in the world. He frowned slightly at her last words, for he loved her.
"Von Behrling was not even allowed to cross the threshold," he said sharply.
She moved her head and looked up at him. She was leaning a little forward now, her chin resting upon her hands. Something about the lines of her long, supple body suggested to him the savage animal crouching for a spring. She was quiet, but her bosom was heaving, and he could guess at the passion within. With purpose he spoke to set it loose.
"You sing to-night?" he asked.
"Before God, no!" she answered, the anger blazing out of her eyes, shaking in her voice. "I sing no more in this accursed city!"
"There will be a revolution," Bellamy remarked. "I see that the whole city is placarded with notices. It is to be a gala night at the Opera. The royal party is to be present."
Her body seemed to quiver like a tree shaken by the wind.
"What do I care—I—I—for their gala night! If I were like Samson, if I could pull down the pillars of their Opera House and bury them all in its ruins, I would do it!"
He took her hand and smoothed it in his.
"Dear Louise, it is useless, this. You do everything that can be done for your country."
Her eyes were streaming and her fingers sought his.
"My friend David," she said, "you do not understand. None of you English yet can understand what it is to crouch in the shadow of this black fear, to feel a tyrant's hand come creeping out, to know that your life-blood and the life-blood of all your people must be shed, and shed in vain. To rob a nation of their liberty, ah! it is worse, this, than murder—a worse crime than his who stains the soul of a poor innocent girl! It is a sin against nature herself!"
She was sobbing now, and she clutched his hands passionately.
"Forgive me," she murmured, "I am overwrought. I have borne up against this thing so long. I can do no more good here. I come to tell you that I go away till the time comes. I go to your London. They want me to sing for them there. I shall do it."
"You will break your engagement?"
She laughed at him scornfully.
"I am Idiale," she declared. "I keep no engagement if I do not choose. I will sing no more to this people whom I hate. My friend David, I have suffered enough. Their applause I loathe—their covetous eyes as they watch me move about the stage—oh, I could strike them all dead! They come to me, these young Austrian noblemen, as though I were already one of a conquered race. I keep their diamonds but I destroy their messages. Their jewels go to my chorus girls or to arm my people. But no one of them has had a kind word from me save where there has been something to be gained. Even Von Behrling I have fooled with promises. No Austrian shall ever touch my lips—I have sworn it!"
Bellamy nodded.
"Yes," he assented, "they call you cold here in the capital! Even in the Palace—"
She held out her hand.
"It is finished!" she declared. "I sing no more. I have sent word to the Opera House. I came here to be in hiding for a while. They will search for me everywhere. To-night or to-morrow I leave for England."
Bellamy stood thoughtfully silent.
"I am not sure that you are wise," he said. "You take it too much for granted that the end has come."
"And do you not yourself believe it?" she demanded. He hesitated.
"As yet there is no proof," he reminded her.
"Proof!"
She sat upright in her chair. Her hands thrust him from her, her bosom heaved, a spot of color flared in her cheeks.
"Proof!" she cried. "What do you suppose, then, that these wolves have plotted for? What else do you suppose could be Austria's share of the feast? Couldn't you hear our fate in the thunder of their voices when that miserable monarch rode back to his captivity? We are doomed—betrayed! You remember the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, a blood-stained page of history for all time. The world would tell you that we have outlived the age of such barbarous doings. It is not true. My friend David, it is not true. It is a more terrible thing, this which is coming. Body and soul we are to perish."
He came over to her side once more and laid his hand soothingly on hers. It was heart-rending to witness the agony of the woman he loved.
"Dear Louise," he said, "after all, this is profitless. There may yet be compromises."
She suffered her hand to remain in his, but the bitterness did not pass out of her face or tone.
"Compromises!" she repeated. "Do you believe, then, that we are like those ancient races who felt the presence of a conqueror because their hosts were scattered in battle, and who suffered themselves passively to be led into captivity? My country can be conquered in one way, and one way only—not until her sons, ay, and her daughters too, have perished, can these people rule. They will come to an empty and a stricken country—a country red with blood, desolate, with blackened houses and empty cities. The horror of it! Think, my friend David, the horror of it!"
Bellamy threw his head back with a sudden gesture of impatience.
"You take too much for granted," he declared. "England, at any rate, is not yet a conquered race. And there is France—Italy, too, if she is wise, will never suffer this thing from her ancient enemy."
"It is the might of the world which threatens," she murmured. "Your country may defend herself, but here she is powerless. Already it has been proved. Last year you declared yourself our friend—you and even Russia. Of what avail was it? Word came from Berlin and you were powerless."
Then tragedy broke into the room, tragedy in the shape of a man demented. For fifteen years Bellamy had known Arthur Dorward, but this man was surely a stranger! He was hatless, dishevelled, wild. A dull streak of color had mounted almost to his forehead, his eyes were on fire.
"Bellamy!" he cried. "Bellamy!"
Words failed him suddenly. He leaned against the table, breathless, panting heavily.
"For God's sake, man," Bellamy began—
"Alone!" Dorward interrupted. "I must see you alone! I have news!"
Mademoiselle Idiale rose. She touched Bellamy on the shoulder.
"You will come to me, or telephone," she whispered. "So?"
Bellamy opened the door and she passed out, with a farewell pressure of his fingers. Then he closed it firmly and came back.
CHAPTER II
