"I will stay here no longer," she cried; "the blood of the Reds grows
pale in this inactivity."

She stood upon the marble steps; the May moon shone down upon her. She
listened a moment to a slight murmuring within the drawing-room window.
The Spanish lady, the Murillo-painted Spanish lady, had come down from
her frame that bound her against the wall. Just for this one night in
the year, she stepped out from the canvas to walk up and down the
rooms majestically. She would not exchange a word with anybody; nobody
understood her language. She could remember when Murillo looked at her,
watched over her, created her with his pencil. She could have nothing to
say to little paltry shepherdesses, and other articles of _virtù_, that
came into grace and motion just at this moment.

The Queen of the Red Chessmen turned away, down into the avenue. The May
moon shone upon her. Her feet trod upon unaccustomed ground; no black or
white square hemmed her in; she felt a new liberty.

"My poor old father!" she exclaimed, "I will leave him behind; better
let him slumber in an ignoble repose than wander over the board, a
laughing-stock for his enemies. We have been conquered,--the foolish
White Prince rules!"

A strange inspiration stole upon her; the breath of the May night
hovered over her; the May moon shone upon her. She could move without
waiting for the will of another; she was free. She passed down the
avenue; she had left her old prison behind.

Early in the morning,--it was just after sunrise,--the kind Doctor