Now had he accepted this dilemma bravely, and fled that very hour from the siren presence, he would have had only a flirtation and a few kisses to store up against the hour of remorse. But he fought shy of drastic measures and sought to gain time like a Turkish diplomat. Perhaps, too, he wanted to stay in Alsander yet a little longer to inquire into the mystifications of his tramp guide, and await instructions as to the promised "career of good works." At all events, there is no doubt that as far as the procrastination business went, he found suddenly a great inspiration in the curious parting command which the old poet had given him. He would weave a mystery about himself. He would thus not only obey the fantastic injunction of the poet, but find a most practical means of escape from a perilous position.

He shook himself free of the twining arms, roughly and suddenly, as though he had just remembered something, and paced up and down the room as one lost in thought.

"Why, what is it?" said Peronella. She was always alarmed at seeing a man meditate. Such is the profound instinct of women!

But Norman, intent now on playing his part with thoroughness and efficiency, made no answer, and going over to the window frowned gloomily and began to mutter to himself.

"Tell me what is the matter," cried the girl, running over to him. "Are you ill?"

"Ah!" said Norman. "I wish I could tell you what is the matter. There is more the matter than you know of, dear, and my heart is as heavy as lead."

"Why, what ever has happened?" said the girl, and her face grew longer still.

"Forgive me, Peronella. I should not have spoken."

"You say your heart is heavy as lead. Tell me what is troubling you!"

"Oh! a little secret trouble, that is all."

"What trouble can be secret between you and me?"

"Do not speak of it again, dear. Forget it. I am sorry I hinted that anything was wrong."

"You are not deceiving me, Normano? You do not love an English girl?"

"No, it is not that."

"Then what is it? You must tell me."

Norman sat on the table and put his hands on the girl's shoulders.

"Well, then, who do you suppose I am?" he asked, with a half-smile.

"Why, an Englishman, of course."

"An Englishman. But what Englishman? And why should I come to Alsander and live in Alsander?"

"But why not? Other Englishmen have come to Alsander."

"Yes, but to buy and sell."

This crude artifice was quite enough to trouble the wits of Peronella.

"It _is_ very strange," she said, musing, "and Cesano said it was strange, but who _are_ you, then, by all the Saints?"

"That I cannot tell you, Peronella."

"Well, what have you come for if not to buy and sell? Besides," added Peronella, pa.s.sionately, "I love you, and that is enough. What do I care who you are?"

"If your love were deep, perhaps you would care who I was."

The saying of this sentence was the worst thing Norman ever did in his life. His conscience haunted him for years and never let him forget those dozen careless words and their cynical hypocrisy.

Peronella did not understand him, nor attempt to, but blazed out in a fury, "How dare you come and tell lies and pretend to be what you aren't and deceive us all? It's all lies, you don't care for me one bit, and I am a little fool!" cried Peronella, on the brink of tears and truth.

"How have I deceived you?" said Norman, lamely.

"You never told me who you were. You come and pretend to be what you are not. You make love to me, and now I see you want to run away."

"You never-asked me. I am not running away," said Norman, breathlessly, seeing this card-house toppling.

"I ask you now."

"Look here," said the hypocrite. "Listen to me and trust me. No, you know I am not lying to you. Look into my eyes and see. I ask just one thing of you. Wait three months and you shall have an answer and know who I am."

"Don't tell more lies and talk more nonsense, species of brute," said the girl, savagely.

"Ah, Peronella, I wish I were talking nonsense."

And the infernal fellow put on an air of sorrow and n.o.bility.

"Wait three months," he repeated, "and then see if you want to marry me, or dare to want to marry me," he added with magniloquence, thoroughly ashamed of himself but too deep in the mire to get free.

"O, Normano, what do you mean? Shall I kill you or believe you?"

"Wait a little while, dear," he said, bending over her with a not feigned tenderness. "Wait a little while and you shall see."

Steps were heard on the stair.

"Here is Cesano," said Peronella, and forthwith Cesano came in with an ineffable air of being on his best behaviour. Norman took his opportunity and went, and with a bow which his fuming rival took for supercilious generosity bade them both good-night.

In the loneliness of his bedroom he fell on his bed like a penitent child and cursed himself for a mean scoundrel. As for Peronella, the first words she said to Cesano were:

"There is a mystery about my Englishman, I wonder who he is," and thereupon she repeated to him the whole conversation. True, he had not told her to keep the secret, but in any case she could not have kept one. It was to be the first thing Cesano was to tell Petro the cobbler when he saw him later that evening, and the first thing Petro the cobbler told Father Algio when he came in for a cup of coffee towards midnight, and the first thing Father Algio told to all his numerous acquaintance. Norman woke up next morning famous and a mystery, and was stared at in the street even more than before. Peronella was perhaps pleased to pa.s.s for the mistress of a mystery, Cesano's hopes revived and all seemed for the best in the best of all possible worlds--for three s.p.a.cious months to come, at least. So thought Norman.

CHAPTER VII

THE SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF ALSANDER

This impossible story of a mad king and a throne going begging.

_An antic.i.p.ated critic._

The unfortunate indisposition of the old King of Bavaria....

The Prince of Wied is spoken of as a likely candidate for the throne of Albania.