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 which the recital roused. When I came to the sad story of poor gallant Zoiloff's wound and death, she was moved to tears of deep and tender regret. But we were lovers and but just reunited, and the interchange of sympathies and mutual comfort in this our first sorrow in common served to awake a fresh chord in the rhythmic harmony of our love.

For her friend, Mademoiselle Broumoff, she was still full of tender concern, and it was a cause of rare happiness that, while we were still together—for the interview lasted some hours—the news came over the wires telling us that she and Spernow were safe, and coming post haste to join us at Nish.

There was but one shadow, besides Zoiloff's death, that hovered in the background. The question whether she would feel it her duty to return to Sofia. I asked her with some dread.

"I have been thinking of it while we talked, and since you told me of the turn which matters have taken," she said, her voice low and anxious, as if she were undecided.

I remembered my despatch to the Foreign Office urging that support should be given to her. But it was not in my power to wish that she should go; for I knew that it might still mean the breaking asunder of our paths in life.

"What do you think, Gerald?"

"I cannot think on such a subject, I can only fear," I replied in a tone as low and tense as her own. "I might lose you then."

"Shall the woman or the Princess answer it?" she asked, her face all womanly with the light of love.

"The lover, Christina," I whispered.

"Then it is answered: my place is here," she said