“Speak low, whatever you say,” I heard Sapt whisper as they came up; and the next thing I heard was a low cry—half of joy, half of fear—from the princess:
“It is he! Are you hurt?”
And she fell on the ground by me, and gently pulled my hands away; but I kept my eyes to the ground.
“It is the King!” she said. “Pray, Colonel Sapt, tell me where lay the wit of the joke you played on me?”
We answered none of us; we three were silent before her. Regardless of them, she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me. Then Sapt spoke in a low hoarse whisper:
“It is not the King. Don’t kiss him; he’s not the King.”
She drew back for a moment; then, with an arm still round my neck, she asked, in superb indignation:
“Do I not know my love? Rudolf my love!”
“It is not the King,” said old Sapt again; and a sudden sob broke from tender-hearted Fritz.
It was the sob that told her no comedy was afoot.