“They made you do it!” she said quickly; and she added, raising her head and looking in my eyes: “It might have made no difference if I’d known it. It was always you, never the King!”

“I meant to tell you,” said I. “I was going to on the night of the ball in Strelsau, when Sapt interrupted me. After that, I couldn’t—I couldn’t risk losing you before—before—I must! My darling, for you I nearly left the King to die!”

“I know, I know! What are we to do now, Rudolf?”

I put my arm round her and held her up while I said:

“I am going away tonight.”

“Ah, no, no!” she cried. “Not tonight!”

“I must go tonight, before more people have seen me. And how would you have me stay, sweetheart, except—?”

“If I could come with you!” she whispered very low.

“My God!” said I roughly, “don’t talk about that!” and I thrust her a little back from me.

“Why not? I love you. You are as good a gentleman as the King!”

Then I was false to all that I should have held by. For I caught her in my arms and prayed her, in words that I will not write, to come with me, daring all Ruritania to take her from me. And for a while she listened, with wondering, dazzled eyes. But as her eyes looked on me, I grew ashamed, and my voice died away in broken murmurs and stammerings, and at last I was silent.

She drew herself away from me and stood against the wall, while I sat on the edge of the sofa, trembling in every limb, knowing what I had done—loathing it, obstinate not to undo it. So we rested a long time.

“I am mad!” I said sullenly.

“I love your madness, dear,” she answered.

Her face was away from me, but I caught the sparkle of a tear on her cheek. I clutched the sofa with my hand and held myself there.

“Is love the only thing?” she asked, in low, sweet tones that seemed to bring a calm even to my wrung heart. “If love were the only thing, I would follow you—in rags, if need be—to the world’s end; for you hold my heart in the hollow of your hand! But is love the only thing?”

I made no answer. It gives me shame now to think that I would not help her.

She came near me and laid her hand on my shoulder. I put my hand up and held hers.

“I know people write and talk as if it were. Perhaps, for some, Fate lets it be. Ah, if I were one of them! But if love had been the only thing, you would have let the King die in his cell.”

I kissed her hand.

“Honour binds a woman too, Rudolf. My honour lies in being true to my country and my House. I don’t know why God has let me love you; but I know that I must stay.”

Still I said nothing; and she, pausing a while, then went on: