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Hope, Anthony, 1863-1933

"The Prisoner of Zenda"

Fritz poured out a glass and gave it to me.
"Is the gentleman in great pain?" the girl asked, sympathetically.
"The gentleman is no worse than when he saw you last," said I, throwing
away my cloak.
She started, with a little shriek. Then she cried:
"It was the King, then! I told mother so the moment I saw his picture.
Oh, sir, forgive me!"
"Faith, you gave me nothing that hurt much," said I.
"But the things we said!"
"I forgive them for the thing you did."
"I must go and tell mother."
"Stop," said I, assuming a graver air. "We are not here for sport
tonight. Go and bring dinner, and not a word of the King being here."
She came back in a few minutes, looking grave, yet very curious.
"Well, how is Johann?" I asked, beginning my dinner.
"Oh, that fellow, sir--my lord King, I mean!"
"'Sir' will do, please. How is he?"
"We hardly see him now, sir."
"And why not?"
"I told him he came too often, sir," said she, tossing her head.
"So he sulks and stays away?"
"Yes, sir."
"But you could bring him back?" I suggested with a smile.
"Perhaps I could," said she.
"I know your powers, you see," said I, and she blushed with pleasure.
"It's not only that, sir, that keeps him away. He's very busy at the
Castle."
"But there's no shooting on now.


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