“Why not, man; why not?” he asked in urgent low tones. Again I looked at them, but somehow this time my eyes were attracted and held by the queen’s face. I believe that she was the first to catch a hint of the tidings I brought. Her lips were parted, and her gaze eagerly strained upon me. I rubbed my hand across my forehead, and, looking up stupidly at her, I said:
“He never can see the letter. He’s dead.”
There was a little scream from Helga; Rudolf neither spoke nor moved; the queen continued to gaze at me in motionless wonder and horror.
“Rupert killed him,” said I. “The boar-hound attacked Rupert; then Herbert and the king attacked him; and he killed them all. Yes, the king is dead. He’s dead.”
Now none spoke. The queen’s eyes never left my face. “Yes, he’s dead.” said I; and I watched her eyes still. For a long while (or long it seemed) they were on my face; at last, as though drawn by some irresistible force, they turned away. I followed the new line they took. She looked at Rudolf Rassendyll, and he at her. Helga had taken out her handkerchief, and, utterly upset by the horror and shock, was lying back in a low chair, sobbing half-hysterically; I saw the swift look that passed from the queen to her lover, carrying in it grief, remorse, and most unwilling joy. He did not speak to her, but put out his hand and took hers. She drew it away almost sharply, and covered her face with both hands.
Rudolf turned to me. “When was it?”
“Last night.”
“And the.... He’s at the lodge?”
“Yes, with Sapt and James.”
I was recovering my senses and my coolness.