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 into an arm-chair. Kneeling in front of her, by exerting all his strength he opened her convulsively clenched fists; her palms were covered with blood, so deeply had she driven the nails into the flesh. “Take that bottle out of his hand,” ordered le bon Prince, and drew back one of the Princess’s fingers after the other.

“Bravo!” cried Prince Suwalski and began to applaud loudly. Meanwhile Von Graun had seized Prokop’s right hand, which was still grasping fragments of the bottle, and forced open his fingers. “Water,” he cried, and the fat cousin, agitatedly looking round, grasped a table cover, soaked it in water and put it on Prokop’s forehead.

“Ahahah!” cried Prokop with relief. The attack was over but his head was still swirling from the sudden flow of blood and his knees trembled with weakness.

Oncle Charles was massaging on his knees the twisted, quivering fingers of the Princess. “Games of this sort are dangerous,” he muttered, while the Princess, completely exhausted, was hardly able to draw her breath. But on her lips there trembled a wry but victorious smile. “You helped him,” said the fat cousin, “that’s what it was.”

The Princess stood up, hardly able to move her legs. “The gentlemen will excuse me,” she said weakly, giving Prokop such a burning glance with her eyes that he grew terrified lest the others should notice it. She left the room on the arm of Uncle Rohn. It was now necessary to celebrate Prokop’s feat somehow or other. The company was a good-natured one, consisting largely of young men who