perhaps, of Mr. Thynne.

The heat of so much reckless, romantic fury on her behalf warmed
the poor lady, who had so long been chilled for want of sympathy,
and starved of love. Impulsively she caught his hand in hers.

"My friend, my friend!" she cried, on a note that quivered and
broke. "You are mad--wonderfully beautifully mad, but mad. What
would become of you if you did this?"

He swept the consideration aside by a contemptuous, almost angry
gesture. "Does that matter? I am concerned with what is to become
of you. I was born for your service, my princess, and the service
being rendered . . ." He shrugged and smiled, threw out his hands
and let them fall again to his sides in an eloquent gesture. He
was the complete courtier, the knight-errant, the romantic preux-
chevalier all in one.

She drew closer to him, took the blue lapels of his military coat
in her white hands, and looked pathetically up into his beautiful
face. If ever she wanted to kiss a man, she surely wanted to kiss
Koenigsmark in that moment, but as she might have kissed a loving
brother, in token of her deep gratitude for his devotion to her
who had known so little true devotion.

"If you knew," she said, "what balsam this proof of your
friendship has poured upon the wounds of my soul, you would
understand my utter lack of words in which to thank you. You
dumbfound me, my friend; I can find no expression for my
gratitude."