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
