“You speak as if you would be pleased to hear me say ‘Yes’ to that,” she said.
“Would ‘Yes’ be true?”
“Yes,” I just heard her breathe, and she went on in an instant: “Be careful, Rudolf; be careful, dear. He will be mad now.”
“What, Michael? If Michael were the worst—”
“What worse is there?”
There was yet a chance for me. Controlling myself with a mighty effort, I took my hands off her and stood a yard or two away. I remember now the note of the wind in the elm trees outside.
“If I were not the King,” I began, “if I were only a private gentleman—”
Before I could finish, her hand was in mine.
“If you were a convict in the prison of Strelsau, you would be my King,” she said.
And under my breath I groaned, “God forgive me!” and, holding her hand in mine, I said again: