“I ask no better than that you should try.”
“And then I’ll proclaim that woman for what she is in all Strelsau.” A smile came on his lips as he watched Rudolf’s face.
“Guard yourself, my lord,” said Mr. Rassendyll.
“Ay, for no better than—There, man, I’m ready for you.” For Rudolf’s blade had touched his in warning.
The steel jangled. The girl’s pale face was at the crevice of the hinge. She heard the blades cross again and again. Then one would run up the other with a sharp, grating slither. At times she caught a glimpse of a figure in quick forward lunge or rapid wary withdrawal. Her brain was almost paralyzed.
Ignorant of the mind and heart of young Rupert, she could not conceive that he tried to kill the king. Yet the words she had caught sounded like the words of men quarreling, and she could not persuade herself that the gentlemen fenced only for pastime. They were not speaking now; but she heard their hard breathing and the movement of their unresting feet on the bare boards of the floor. Then a cry rang out, clear and merry with the fierce hope of triumph: “Nearly! nearly!”
She knew the voice for Rupert of Hentzau’s, and it was the king who answered calmly, “Nearly isn’t quite.”
Again she listened. They seemed to have paused for a moment, for there was no sound, save of the hard breathing and deep-drawn pants of men who rest an instant in the midst of intense exertion. Then came again the clash and the slitherings; and one of them crossed into her view. She knew the tall figure and she saw the red hair: it was the king. Backward step by step he seemed to be driven, coming nearer and nearer to the door. At last there was no more than a foot between him and her; only the crazy panel prevented her putting out her hand to touch him. Again the voice of Rupert rang out in rich exultation, “I have you now! Say your prayers, King Rudolf!”
“Say your prayers!” Then they fought. It was earnest, not play. And it was the king—her king—her dear king, who was in great peril of his life. For an instant she knelt, still watching. Then with a low cry of terror she turned and ran headlong down the steep stairs. Her mind could not tell what to do, but her heart cried out that she must do something for her king. Reaching the ground floor, she ran with wide-open eyes into the kitchen. The stew was on the hob, the old woman still held the spoon, but she had ceased to stir and fallen into a chair.
“He’s killing the king! He’s killing the king!” cried Rosa, seizing her mother by the arm. “Mother, what shall we do? He’s killing the king!”