And she fell on the ground by me, and gently pulled my hands away; but I kept my eyes to the ground.

“It is the King!” she said. “Pray, Colonel Sapt, tell me where lay the wit of the joke you played on me?”

We answered none of us; we three were silent before her. Regardless of them, she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me. Then Sapt spoke in a low hoarse whisper:

“It is not the King. Don’t kiss him; he’s not the King.”

She drew back for a moment; then, with an arm still round my neck, she asked, in superb indignation:

“Do I not know my love? Rudolf my love!”

“It is not the King,” said old Sapt again; and a sudden sob broke from tender-hearted Fritz.

It was the sob that told her no comedy was afoot.

“He is the King!” she cried. “It is the King’s face—the King’s ring—my ring! It is my love!”

“Your love, madame,” said old Sapt, “but not the King. The King is there in the Castle. This gentleman—”

“Look at me, Rudolf! look at me!” she cried, taking my face between her hands. “Why do you let them torment me? Tell me what it means!”

Then I spoke, gazing into her eyes.

“God forgive me, madame!” I said. “I am not the King!”

I felt her hands clutch my cheeks. She gazed at me as never man’s face was scanned yet. And I, silent again, saw wonder born, and doubt grow, and terror spring to life as she looked. And very gradually the grasp of her hands slackened; she turned to Sapt, to Fritz, and back to me: then suddenly she reeled forward and fell in my arms; and with a great cry of pain I gathered her to me and kissed her lips. Sapt laid his hand on my arm. I looked up in his face. And I laid her softly on the ground, and stood up, looking on her, cursing heaven that young Rupert’s sword had spared me for this sharper pang.