Now some of you who read will think her death was just, because she was not a moral woman. But others will hold with Paul she was the noblest lady who ever wore a crown. And in all cases she is beyond our puny reasonings.

But her work in Paul's heart still lives, and will live to the end of his life. Although for long months after the agony of that June day, nothing but hate and passion and misery had the ruling of him.

He could not bear his kind. His father and Captain Grigsby had left the yacht to him and let him cruise alone. But who can know of the hideous, ghastly hours that Paul spent then, ever obsessed with this one bitter thought? Why had he not gone back? Why had he not gone back when that impulse had seized him? Why had Vasili, and not he, had the satisfaction of killing this vile slayer of his Queen?

Even the remembrance of his child did not rouse him. It was safe with the Grand Duke Peter--a king at four months old! But what of sons, or kings or countries--nothing could make up for the loss of his Queen! And to think that she had died to save him! Save him from what? A brush with three besotted drunkards, whom it would have been great joy to kill!

There were moments when Paul went mad with passion, and lay and writhed in his berth. So long months passed, and at last he dominated himself enough to come back to his home.