"It is the King," she said to herself; and the picture answered her, "It is the King's servant." And, lo! the face of the picture was the face of Charles Wogan.

She covered her cheeks with her hands in a burning rush of shame; she struck in her thoughts at the face of that image with her clenched fists, to bruise, to annihilate it.

"It is the King! It is the King! It is the King!" she cried in her remorse, but the image persisted.

It still wore the likeness of Charles Wogan; it still repeated, "No, it is the King's servant." There was more of the primitive woman in this girl bred in the rugged country-side of Silesia than even Wogan was aware of, and during the halts in their journey she had learned from Mrs.Misset details which Wogan had been at pains to conceal.

It was Wogan who had conceived the idea of her rescue--in the King's place.