The gentlemen and ladies in
attendance withdrew, and we were alone.
The little room had French windows opening on the gardens. The night was
fine, cool, and fragrant. Flavia sat down, and I stood opposite her. I
was struggling with myself: if she had not looked at me, I believe that
even then I should have won my fight. But suddenly, involuntarily, she
gave me one brief glance--a glance of question, hurriedly turned aside;
a blush that the question had ever come spread over her cheek, and she
caught her breath. Ah, if you had seen her! I forgot the King in Zenda.
I forgot the King in Strelsau. She was a princess--and I an impostor.
Do you think I remembered that? I threw myself on my knee and seized
her hands in mine. I said nothing. Why should I? The soft sounds of the
night set my wooing to a wordless melody, as I pressed my kisses on her
lips.
She pushed me from her, crying suddenly:
"Ah! is it true? or is it only because you must?"
"It's true!" I said, in low smothered tones--"true that I love you more
than life--or truth--or honour!"
She set no meaning to my words, treating them as one of love's sweet
extravagances. She came close to me, and whispered:
"Oh, if you were not the King! Then I could show you how I love you! How
is it that I love you now, Rudolf?"
"Now?"
"Yes--just lately.
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