"What is it they whisper, sweet?" he asked; he himself did no more than whisper.
"The trees whisper, 'Love, love, love.' And the wind—don't you hear the wind murmuring, 'Love, love, love'? And the birds sing, 'Love, love, love.' Aye, all the world to-day is softly whispering, 'Love, love, love.' What else should the great world whisper but my love? For my love is greater than the world." And she suddenly hid her face in her hands; and he could kiss no more than her hands, though her eyes gleamed at him from between slim white fingers.
But suddenly her hands dropped, and she leant forward as though she listened.
"What is that sound?" she asked, apprehension dawning in her eyes.
"It is but another whisper, love!" said he.
"Nay, but it sounds to me like—ah, like the noise of horses galloping."
"It is but the stream, beating over stones."
"Listen, listen, listen!" she cried springing to her feet. "They are horses' hoofs! Ah, merciful God, it is the King!" And she caught him by the hand and pulled him to his feet, looking at him with a face pale and alarmed.
"Not the King," said he. "He would not know yet. It is some one else. Hide your face, dear lady, and all will be well."
"It is the King," she cried. "Hark how they gallop on the road! It is my brother. Love, he will kill you, love, he will kill you."